Strange Sister
by Etherboy
Summary: Yet another SI story. This one follows a most unfortunate man as he tries to survive living in Westeros in the body of Sansa Stark as an inevitable war breakouts all around him. Fair warning, issues of body dysphoria, loss of identity and sexuality abound.
1. Arya I

**ARYA I**

Couching down so she could peek through a small crack in the thick wooden doors, and only taking small shallow breaths so no one could hear her, Arya watched her sister loudly argue with their mother. Again.

This time it was over Sansa cutting her hair with scissors she had found in the kitchens.

Only able to see the back of her head through the crack, Arya would have sworn that the child arguing with her mother was a boy. Sansa's auburn hair had been cut short, only reaching her ears, and was so messy that one would think she had been rolling around in the woods or in dust for hours. Knowing her sister both could have been true.

 _She looks like Robb or Bran,_ Arya suddenly realized.

Arya smiled to herself and almost let a chuckle escape her lips.

She always knew that something was strange about her older sister, even when she was little. Well, littler. Arya liked to think that at nine years she was smarter than most people cared to admit, even if her mother and nasty old Septa Mordane did not.

Sansa would agree with her though. That was probably the strangest thing about her Arya thought, smiling even harder.

 _She never says I can't do something just because I'm a lady. And she never complains when I forgot my courtesies_ , Arya happily reflected, though she had to admit it was probably because Sansa wasn't any better at being a proper lady.

Distracted by her reminiscing Arya almost didn't notice the moment when the two began to lower their voices.

It was quicker than usual this time, but the cycle was consistent. Sansa would do or say something strange and their mother would be so bewildered she'd drag her eldest daughter to her bedchamber to have their argument in privacy so the smallfolk, or worse, visiting lords and ladies, would not see them and gossip. Catelyn would say that Sansa was being unladylike, rude and a bad example for her sister, and Sansa would fire back about how "backwards" everyone was being. But no matter how terrible one of their fights would get, no matter how much they shouted at one another or threw accusations, they'd eventually temper themselves, apologize, and reconcile.

Every time.

Arya envied that a little. Her fights with her mother didn't always end so neatly.

"Sorry, Mother." Arya heard Sansa say under her breath.

Catelyn knelt down to touch Sansa's cheek and lock her blue eyes with her daughter's.

"I only want the best for you, Sansa. I want you to be happy." She started, shaking her head in tired exasperation. "You're almost old enough to flower and when that happens everything will change," she noted matter-of-factly, but with a tinge of melancholy.

"And you'll have to change, too. You can't continue to do this, sweetling. Playing these silly games of yours," she said, pointing a finger to her hair.

Arya couldn't see her sister's face, but she knew it must have looked tired too. It usually did after she fought with their mother.

"I know, Mother. I know. I just wanted to…"

"What? Whatever could you want?" Catelyn asked, pleading in that way that always made Arya feel ashamed, even when she thought she was in the right.

"Be myself. If only for a little while longer." It was only a whisper and Arya strained to hear it through the door, but even so the desperation in it was palpable.

Catelyn just looked at her for a moment before taking Sansa into her arms and holding her close.

Arya could hear her sister softly crying. She wanted to go inside and hug her too, but instead she looked away. She knew Sansa would hate for her to see her crying.

"Big brothers don't cry, so why should big sisters," she remembered her sister saying after she caught her weeping alone one night in her own bedchamber. She never did learn why she was crying or why it looked like she had torn the gown she was wearing. Sansa just told her that she wouldn't understand and that no one ever could.

Arya heard her sister's sobs slowly lose their strength as Catelyn whispered comforting words to her.

"I know you're scared, sweetling. I was too when I was young. But things won't be as bad as you fear. Your father and I will find you a kind husband who will love you and give you children that you'll love even more," she promised, with a warm smile.

"But I…" Sansa began, quiet defiance laced in her words. But Arya could tell, even without looking, that her sister was spent for words and defiance.

"You're right, Mother," she said sheepishly, defeated once again. "I guess I just don't want to be a woman quite yet."

Catelyn rose back to full height and looked down at Sansa, her face full of sympathy. "But you will be, Sansa. And a beautiful one at that. Which is why the Maiden Above must be weeping for the travesty you've made of your hair," she said firmly, but not unkindly.

Sansa only bobbed her head in response.

"You are a lady of Winterfell, Sansa. Soon lords from Houses across the North and even south of the Neck will seek your hand for their sons. I promise you I'll do everything I can to find you a proper husband, but you'll make that task impossible if continue as you are."

Pausing for a moment, Catelyn used her fingers to raise her daughter's chin so that she'd look her in the eye. "So please, swear to me you won't do something like this again. For my sake and your sister's if not your own. She looks up to you and I fear she'll always act the reckless child if you do too."

Arya bit her lip. _It's not Sansa's fault that I'm the way that I am_ , she wanted to say. _I have too much wolf blood. Like dead Lyanna and poor uncle Brandon_. That's what her father always said anyway. Thinking on it for a bit, Arya figured that Sansa must have too much wolf blood, too.

In the end, Sansa made her promise and then some. She'd never cut her hair so short again without leave from Catelyn first and neither would she deliberately rip her dresses, fight with Septa Mordane over lessons, or sneak out of her chambers in the dead of night to go to the library tower. She also swore she'd stop pulling pranks on Theon, but Arya knew that was a promise that her sister would never keep even if she bothered to keep all the others.

With that done, mother and daughter hugged one another once more, with Catelyn placing a kiss on her daughter's tear-stained cheek before finally moving to leave the bedchamber.

Arya hastily made her escape from the door. Moving away as quietly as she could, she made it to the end of the hallway that connected Sansa's bedchambers to others in the Great Keep just in time to see her mother turn a corner and go the opposite direction.

With her mother's footsteps slowly fading away Arya pondered whether she'd immediately console her sister or wait for her in the library tower. Arya knew that Sansa would inevitability retreat there to forget her troubles, like she always did.

It turned out that she didn't have to make a choice at all.

"I know you're there, sis," Sansa shouted from the bedchamber. "I could hear you scurry about when mother left."

Annoyed that she was caught easedropping again, but too excited to play coy, Arya rushed to meet her sister.

When she made it to the bedchamber, Sansa was using one hand to wipe away the few remaining tears on her face and the other to pat a spot on the bed for Arya to sit. She was smiling too but Arya could tell she was only doing it for her sake. _It doesn't quite reach her eyes_ , she recognized. Arya couldn't remember who first taught her that. It could have been father, Ser Rodrik or Jon, but she could almost always tell if someone was faking a smile by looking into their eyes. Arya didn't bother to bring that up Sansa though. It would only make her sad she reckoned and she was supposed to be doing the opposite.

Avoiding the stray books and papers taken from the library tower that were scattered across the room, a perpetual sight whenever she visited her sister's chambers, especially in recent weeks, Arya took her place beside Sansa on the bed and waited for her sister to speak first.

It wasn't a custom they had knowingly thought up for themselves, but over the years it more or less became such whenever one of them got upset. Arya absently thought that it was probably one of the only courtesies that she could always remember and get right.

"So, I suppose you heard all of that, huh," Sansa at last spoke.

"Most of it, yes." Arya looked at her sister and scrunched up her face. "Mother was being stupid. So what if some stupid lord doesn't like your hair. It's just hair, not something that matters."

"But it does, Arya." Sansa said solemnly, looking much older than her eleven years when she did. "Mother's right. I need to look pretty so some idiot king will think me worthy of his even stupider son, and no matter what I say or do that won't change. It's just how this story goes," she uttered, spitting out the last words like they were a curse.

Arya didn't really know what to say to that. Her sister could get so angry and sullen sometimes. Usually she understood why, or at least thought she did. Like when father wouldn't let either of them go on a boar hunt but would take Robb and Jon, or when Septa Mordane would say they had the hands of blacksmiths because their embroidery was so crooked.

Other times though she was at a loss. Once, the lord of the Dreadfort came to Winterfell to speak with their father. The man never said more than courtesies to either of them in his strange whispering way but Sansa looked at him as if he was monster the whole time he was at Winterfell. She would sometimes give the same look to Theon and always treated the Greyjoy like a stranger.

Whenever Arya had the courage to ask Sansa why hated them so much her answer would always be the same.

"You wouldn't understand and I hope you never do," she'd say before messing her hair and pretending she never asked the question. The younger Stark sister hated that. She hated how she it felt like her sister was keeping secrets from her. Like she knew something important but refused to tell. It wasn't right Arya thought. Mother and Father had their secrets and their hushed whispers, but she and Sansa were sisters. They were supposed to be honest with each, or at least try to be.

Pushing those dark thoughts to the side, Arya remembered that she still wasn't sure what to say to Sansa in the here and now, so she simply said the first thing to come to her mind.

"Well I think this story's stupid then."

Sansa laughed at that and mussed her hair like always. "You have no idea how right you are, sis. No idea."

Finally looking towards her sister, Sansa began to smile in earnest and Arya couldn't help but do the same.

"But I suppose it's not all bad," Sansa began to say, half-serious. "There's you, Father, Robb, Bran, Rickon…"

"And Jon! Don't forget him." Arya interrupted. He was family too, if only by half.

"Yes, and Jon, too." Sansa corrected.

"Mother, as well." She continued. "I used to hate her for how she treated Jon when I was…" Sansa paused for a moment, as if trying to figure out just the right word to say. "Younger, but she's kind and I can't blame her for being how she is sometimes," she said philosophically, before quickly adding, "And you shouldn't either by the way," giving Arya a pointed look.

Arya had half a mind to argue that point, but thought better of it.

"I don't hate her. I never did. It's just that sometimes she can be…" Arya didn't have the right words for it, but sometimes it was hard to understand her mother and why she thought she had to be different from how she was. Arya didn't like to think of it but she always feared her mother was ashamed of her.

Sansa offered an answer. "Overbearing, controlling, intrusive?"

"Yes! All of that," Arya practically screamed out.

Sansa just laughed and rolled her eyes. "All the same, she still means well, Arya. I know that's hard to see sometimes, gods know it took me no small amount of time to figure that one out, but it's true."

Sansa continued on, speaking more to herself than her sister now. "She was right about the hair," she conceded, though to Arya's eyes it looked like it pained her to do so. "And about many other things, too. Sometimes… sometimes you have to lose a little of yourself to get what you want, I think."

That scared Arya. She never heard her sister sound so defeated before, so resigned. It always seemed like Sansa had some argument to make when others said things had to be one way, and while Arya didn't always understand her reasoning she respected her defiance nevertheless. The girl beside her now was a tired shadow of the one Arya knew and loved.

Again Arya found herself not knowing what to say. She was never great when it came to soothing words, memories of telling Bran to stop whining whenever he got hurt playing monsters and maidens or rats and cats with her uncomfortably coming to mind.

"Whatever, I still think it's all stupid," was all Arya could reply with. She knew it wasn't much of a rebuttal but it was all she could muster. She had at least hoped that it would make Sansa laugh again if not nothing else, but her sister just sat there sullenly on the bed, lost to thoughts that Arya could not fathom.

Arya knew this wasn't going well. She was supposed to helping, but instead, it felt like she was adding to her sister's misery more anything _._

 _If she would just tell me what was wrong I could help_ , Arya thought bitterly. There was something more troubling her sister than their mother's words or stupid lordling boys, she knew it, but as to what Arya could not say. In that, Sansa could be so such like her brother Jon. So obviously hurt over something but rarely deigning to tell Arya what.

Despondent and wanting to change the subject the younger Stark asked a question that had been lightly buzzing in her head since Sansa mentioned the possibility.

"Do you really think you'll be betrothed to a prince?" She innocently inquired. Even as the question left her lips Arya chastised herself for asking it. Father would never allow it. Starks are made for the North, he enough said, and whenever they went south tragedy seemed to follow.

To Arya's surprise, the question brought Sansa out of her stupor. Shifting from her spot on the bed so suddenly that it startled Arya, she stared at her sister as if she had caught her in a lie. Arya saw different emotions play on her sister's face within the span of a few moments. First embarrassment, then apprehension, and lastly hope. She looked as she was about to tell her what was wrong, and for a second Arya had hope that she would. _I can help, I swear it_ , Arya's face all about said. But the moment passed like a shadow on the wall and Sansa did what we always did.

"You wouldn't understand," she said, faking another smile that failed to mask the sadness in her voice.

"And I hope you never do."

* * *

Author's Notes - This is a Sansa SI that I've been working on for awhile. I wanted to seriously explore just how isolating and miserable it would be to actually be reincarnated in Westeros in a body that isn't your own and being forced to live someone else's life, all the while knowing that things are only going to get worse.

The SI himself isn't based on me, but probably has a couple aspects of my personality. I used Arya as the POV because I thought it would be interesting to see how her relationship with her "sister" would change. The next chapter will be from the SI's perspective and will showcase just how much of a psychological mess he is (body dysphoria and culture shock are a hell of a thing) and how he deeply regrets not paying attention in high school science class. OK that last one was a joke, but don't expect flintlocks to show up in this story.

Criticism and reviews are always welcome. Peace


	2. The Dead Man I

**THE DEAD MAN I**

The dead man remembered. Most of the memories were disconnected images, glimpses of a life long gone and a thousand years away. Some were stronger though, like visions, each having their own smells, sounds, and tastes.

He saw a girl in a park begging him to play with her. He knew that she was his sister but could not recall her name no matter how hard he tried. Her face was a mystery to him too, for every time he tried to catch a glimpse, it would change, becoming longer, gaining grey eyes and wild brown hair. It was just as good, the dead man couldn't remember his parent's names or faces anymore either, so why should he know his sister's?

Visions change and shift away like leaves in the wind, leaving the girl behind and revealing a collage of new ones. He remembers standing tall and proud on a stage and thinking his future was set, certain and bright. He remembers a kiss from a woman he thought he loved and hoped loved him back. And he remembers staring up at clear starry night and thinking he'd never see something so beautiful ever again.

The next vision is stronger than all the others.

He remembers the noxious smell of urine hanging in the air and of crying and laughing all at once when he realized he had pissed himself didn't even know it. This vision doesn't float away like all the others. It holds him instead, trapping him in that stinking room, with its bleach white walls and pale curtains. It makes him remember how it felt to be there, immobile, powerless and knowing that he was simply waiting to die.

The dead man remembers thinking he had made peace with that, of knowing that all men must die and that he was no different. But when death finally came he was afraid. He thought the sickness had driven fear out him along with everything else, but he remembers being terrified as his heart finally gave out. He remembers darting his eyes looking all around that septic prison and wanting to see someone, anyone, who he could rightfully call family. The dead man couldn't recall if he did. All he remembers is being too weak to call out but still begging all the same.

 _I don't want to go. I don't want to go. God help me I don't want to…_

The dead man awoke from his dream to see Jeyne Poole looking down at him with concern written all over her young face. It took a moment to shake the dreams from his mind and remember where and who he was.

He had fallen asleep in the library tower. Again.

It wasn't an uncommon occurrence but the dead man cursed under his breath all the same.

He had made a promise to his "mother" and for a while, he actually managed to keep it. But old habits had always been hard for him to break, in this life and his last, and eventually, he couldn't help but sneak off to the tower when sleep refused to come to him the night before.

He had told himself that he would simply finish Archmaester Gyldayn's _The Princess and The Queen_ and then return to his chambers to try again for a dreamless sleep. But as always his plans went awry and he ended up not only finishing that voluminous tome but also beginning Maester Egbert's _Justice and Injustice in the North_.

At the time he told himself he was simply being prudent. It wasn't a book of war like so many of the others he had read, but all knowledge was good knowledge he remembered and it wasn't like there was much chance of him learning about Northern law from Septa Mordane.

 _So much is coming. I might as well learn anything even remotely useful before the shit hits the fan_ , he had thought glumly.

He ended up getting a quarter through the tome before sleep took him unawares and left him in his present situation.

When Jeyne was sure that the fog of sleep had lifted from her friend's eyes she spoke. "You know your lady mother will be furious if she catches you, here again, Sansa," she whispered anxiously, as if she thought Catelyn might hear her and storm the tower.

It was hardly the first time Jeyne had caught him doing something untoward and it definitely wasn't the first time she had warned him of Catelyn's or Mordane's wrath if they ever found out. In fact, it had become almost routine, with Jeyne making her chastisements only to say she'd never tell them, always doing so as if she swearing an ancient oath of fealty.

It was stupid he knew, but that was probably what he disliked most about Jeyne. She was loyal to him despite his habitual curses, dark moods and strange musings. She was his friend and the dead man didn't know why. He used to think it was because he was Sansa Stark, the eldest daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, and thus Jeyne was obligated to be kind to him and keep his secrets as if that was her sole purpose in life. He used to hate being around her because of that. He felt like he was taking advantage, using a privilege that he should hate to have. But Jeyne stuck to him like glue and wore on him after a while, causing him to accept that the girl's friendship was genuine.

That added to the guilt, but at least he had a friend, and there were days where he sorely needed one to make it through the day. He still felt guilty about it though, and so he decided a while ago to play the "part" whenever Jeyne was around him. He wore the mask of Sansa Stark with everyone in Winterfell, but with Jeyne he decided she deserved it the most. She needed a friend too he knew, and it wasn't as if Arya was going to be it given their wildly different interests. Besides, given all the horror that could befall the girl he figured it was least he could do.

"How did you know I was here?" He asked, a yawn escaping his lips as he did.

Jeyne rolled her eyes at the question, and the dead man wanted to slap himself for asking it.

The steward's daughter answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Because you're always here, that's how, silly."

The dead man wanted to say something clever to that, if only to regain some of his pride, but instead, he just made a lopsided grin and shrugged. It wasn't as if she wrong after all.

Rising slowly from his seat on the hard ironwood table that dominated the library, the dead man struggled to keep his eyes focused. The award for late night reading he knew. When he managed to finally get them to stay open he saw that nervousness had returned to Jeyne's eyes.

"It's almost morning, Sansa," she said urgently, still whispering. "The servants will be in your chambers soon and you know what they'll do if they don't find you there."

The dead man knew all too well. It was far too early in the morning to deal with Catelyn. And thinking back to their last big argument, he knew he didn't have the wherewithal to weather another one of her scathing looks of disappointment.

"You're right, as always," he said with a playful smile. He figured he might as well try to make light of the situation, if only to get Jeyne to stop acting as if being caught would lead them to the chopping block.

It didn't work. "I only came here in case you were," Jeyne replied, still anxious. "I know you promised Lady Stark you wouldn't anymore but you're…" Jeyne trailed off, trying nobly to think of a courteous word that would not dishonor her friend but ultimately coming up short.

"Well, _you_. I knew you wouldn't last long. So I've been sneaking out of my chambers to see if you'd be here," Jeyne confessed, a mix of apprehension and thrill on her face for her small act of rebellion.

"You woke up before dawn every day just to make sure I didn't make get in trouble?" The dead man asked, honestly bewildered.

"Well not every day," Jeyne said, sounding almost apologetic. "I only did it when I woke up before my father. It was nothing really."

The dead man shook his head, temporarily at a loss for words. "Don't talk as if that's nothing Jeyne," he said, trying his best not to start choking up. His old self would be cringing at all the crying he had been doing as of late, he realized.

He grasped Jeyne's slim shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "You didn't have to do that. You would have been in as much trouble as I if your father found out. What you did was brave, Jeyne," he said, trying to muster as much seriousness as his girlish voice would allow.

The steward's daughter still wasn't convinced. "I was only doing my duty," Jeyne said sheepishly.

The dead man signed and let Jeyne go. "It shouldn't be your duty to clean up after my mistakes," he complained. "It's not like am a..." He managed to narrowly stop himself before he got to the last part but nonetheless internally cursed himself for getting carried away.

"Like what?" Jeyne asked, confused.

"Never mind," the dead man said, suddenly tired all over again. "I just want you to know that I appreciate this. That I appreciate you."

Jeyne beamed out a smile at that. "Well if that's the case then maybe you'll stop coming here altogether and reading dusty old books," she said, lightly chuckling and putting a finger to the copy of _The Princess and The Queen_ on the long table.

"Not a chance," the dead man said blithely, causing Jeyne to laugh even louder before she remembered where they were and lowered her voice once more.

"We need to leave, Sansa. If we dally here any longer we'll we caught for sure," she urged.

She was right of course. He could already see light pour through the arrowslits that decorated the tower walls.

The pair quickly blew out the torches that he had lit the night before and made sure to put the tomes he had read back to their rightful places on the library's shelves. After that, they quietly left the library tower and made their way across a still sleeping Winterfell, moving through the empty guest house and armory before finally reaching the bridge that connected the Great Keep to the rest of the castle complex.

Once they had made it across the dead man took care to give Jeyne a well-deserved hug and another round of platitudes. The steward's daughter stayed as humble as ever and simply thanked him for the compliments before swearing she'd tell no one about his midnight escapade.

With that the pair departed, Jeyne going to the lower floors of the keep while the dead man went upwards to his own bedchambers. Walking up the staircases the dead man had the presence of mind to note how even the arrangement of the rooms in the keep helped to illustrate who was higher in the social order. He pushed the thought aside, telling himself, as he always did, it would do no good to bemoan Westerosi feudalism for the umpteenth time.

Once he made it to his chambers he pounced upon his bed. Even knowing he'd get only an hour or two of rest before the servants came, he appreciated the bed's softness compared to the ironwood chair he had slept in and quickly found himself asleep.

The dead man suffered no dreams as he slept, which he was more than grateful for.

When Maia and Clayr finally came to rouse him, he decided to make a dramatic show of waking, yawning as if he had slept for thousand years and stretching his arms as if he was going to embrace a bear. It was childish he knew, but the looks of bewilderment that the maids exchanged with one another made it worth it. Besides, he was technically a child, and children were supposed to act childish, he recalled from somewhere.

That bit of fun helped him endure what came next.

Maia started removing his nightgown and undergarments with an ease and certainty of purpose that only made the dead man feel stiff and nervous in comparison. Clayr readied a bath for him in the corner of the room, putting lilacs and winter roses in the tub.

As always the two maids performed their morning ministrations in near silence, only speaking when they needed him to move slightly this way or that way or when something was ready for him. Neither seemed to notice how he would flinch at almost every touch or how his eyes never lingered on his own body.

He truly hated this. The awkwardness of having other people take off his clothes and help him bathe was an embarrassment on to itself, one that even after all these years still made him barely suppress a cringe. But more than that it made him remember another life when such aid was constant and far more humiliating.

 _Don't think about it_ , he warned himself, the thought having become a mantra over the years. What was the point of thinking about the past, especially that part of it? It was best to forget about such things he often had to tell himself, though more often than not he failed to live up to his own advice.

The dreams didn't help things either. They had become less frequent and coherent as he grew older, and he remembered less and less from them, but they still came every now and again, haunting him. The dead man often wished that they'd just leave him entirely, but then, what he would be without them? The real Sansa Stark, he supposed.

Clayr was done with the bath around the same time Maia was finished with his clothes. The pair waited patiently for his next inevitable order.

 _They're like clockwork_ , he mused. _Robots working in sequence to fulfill their master's needs_. The dead man didn't know whether to be impressed or guilty, so he settled for resigned. _This is just how things are. You can hate it all you want but it won't change a thing. Besides, this is hardly the worst of it_ , a voice compelled him to admit.

He dismissed the maids with an awkward "Thank you" and a flick of the wrist. They had left a grey gown on his bed just before they did. They'd be back he knew, Catelyn was done trusting him with what to wear after he had ruined his tenth nameday by attending it wearing some of Robb's old clothes instead of some blue silken thing that Catelyn had given him for the occasion. The whole thing seemed stupid and childish in hindsight, but a part of him thought himself a hero for it.

The dead man moved to the tub of with his eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling the whole way. Even when he was bathing he didn't dare move his eyes downwards and had them closed through most of the washing. The dead man let out a mirthless laugh when he realized he would have found this comical if it wasn't happening to him.

When the ordeal was finally over he recalled the maids so they could complete their work.

They dried him, helped him put on fresh undergarments along with the grey dress, and brushed his thick auburn hair until it felt like silk to the touch. When they were finished, Clayr bought out a long mirror so he could look at their handiwork for himself. He didn't order them to, they simply did it. _On Catelyn's orders probably. Does she think I'll act more ladylike if I just see how pretty I am?_

When he looked at his reflection he saw a young girl with high cheekbones, vivid blue eyes and shining auburn hair that was starting to reach his shoulders again.

He looked beautiful and the image made him want to retch and scream out.

 _This body doesn't belong to you_ , a voice suddenly accused. _You're a thief. A pretender. An invader who stole a child's life. You're worse than Joffrey. He just tortured the girl but you've killed her and taken her place. You're a murderer. You were always a pathetic shit of a man, but in death you have become a child killer. You deserve this. You deserve Westeros._

"Shut up," he suddenly blurted out.

Clayr and Maia stared at him in shock and exchanged a look.

"But my lady, we didn't–"

He didn't hear them.

"Just shut up," he repeated, louder this time. There was anger in his voice but his eyes barely held back his tears. His heart was racing, his hands were clenched and he stared madly at the reflection as if it was making the accusations.

When he realized the maids were staring at him as if he had gone mad he snapped out of it.

"Leave. Tell anyone of this and I'll accuse the pair of you of stealing from me," he almost yelled, his voice shrill.

The two fled the room immediately, but not before Maia shot him a venomous look that she tried to hide under a curtsy.

I deserved that, he noted, still overwhelmed. I deserve all of this.

It would take a half-hour of muttering denials to himself and sporadic crying fits before he had the strength to step outside his chambers and meet the day.

He did so in a daze, going from one lesson to another and hardly making an effort to retain anything. Why bother he told himself? It wasn't as if he was any good at most of what they were teaching him anyway.

He danced like an awkward chicken with palsy, stumbled constantly whenever he tried to play the harp and was never brave enough to earnestly sing in front of anyone. Most of his teachers had simply given up on him, but Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane stayed the course. With Luwin, he actually managed to be a fairly successful pupil, finding mathematics, law and history to be as much his forte in this life as it was in his last.

With Mordane though it seemed the woman simply enjoyed a challenge and was determined to make a proper lady out of him no matter how many times they clashed or argued over anything and everything.

Today was no different, with Mordane seemingly being compelled to make some heartbroken comment about his hair every few minutes. He paid them no mind, simply ignoring them or meekly agreeing while he attempted to embroidery a banner with the Stark coat of arms. Jeyne looked at him with quiet empathy, but Arya was slowly boiling and likely would have said something if not for the dead man giving her a look whenever she seemed on the verge of doing so. _I made a promise to Catelyn_ , he remembered. _Keeping it is the least I could do for murdering her daughter._

It was slightly past midday when their lessons were over and they were given leave to do what they wanted within reason.

Arya begged him to join her in some adventure in the crypts but he declined and instead went to the library tower earning him a pout.

Usually, he couldn't refuse her, especially when she used the old puppy dog routine, but after his episode with the maids all he wanted to do was be alone and drown his miserable thoughts in pages of ancient history.

"But there's no one else to play with, Sansa. Jon, Robb and even Bran are gone and Rickon's is still too little," Arya had argued.

"They're probably off hunting with Father, Arya. I'm sure they'll be back soon," he replied clinically.

It was only a guess, but he figured it was a likely one. Bran had reached the age where Eddard had started taking him along to observe his lordly tasks with Robb and Jon. It was as much his education as dancing and sewing were for Arya and him.

The thought made him sad and bitter all at once. He could still recall how it felt when Robb and Jon seemed to slowly disappear from his life as they got older. Both began to spend more and more of their time learning how to hunt, fight, and in Robb's case, rule, instead of helping him endure Mordane's insipid lessons on the Faith.

They weren't his brothers, he had to remind himself. Not truly, but he still wanted to join them in almost everything they did when he was young and would throw tantrums whether he was denied the chance by the man he had to pretend was his father.

Arya was much the same and he thought himself cruel for leaving her alone while he sulked in a tower, but he did it nevertheless. She wouldn't want to be around him for long anyway, he reasoned. Who would enjoy the company of a broody sibling who seemed dead to the world?

He was alone in the library tower trying to force himself to care about Lord So-and-So's judgment of Lord Such-and-Such when he finally saw Arya again, a few hours having passed since they last talked.

She practically busted through the door to the library, a look of pure joy on her face. Before he even had the time to recover from his surprise or ask why she was there, Arya was already on him, having crossed the room seemingly in the blink of an eye and smiling ear to ear.

"Sansa! Everybody's back," she exclaimed, giddy and barely able to stay still.

The dead man nodded his head and looked at Arya as if she had gone mad as well.

"Oh. Well, that's good. I'm sure Jon or Bran would be willing to go down to the crypts with you," he said hesitantly, still at a loss. Arya looked as if she had just received a present for her nameday, but something in the back on his mind made him apprehensive about the whole thing.

 _You've forgotten something_ , a voice seemed to say, but for the life of him he could not figure out what and that scared him more than anything.

Arya didn't seem to notice this, being too excited to see how her sister's eyes were more guarded than usual. Instead, she simply grabbed her by the wrist and led her out the library, reassuring her while they moved that something amazing had happened.

The dead man for his part simply acquiesced. Hiding in the library didn't help him forget what had happened this morning, so why not let Arya drag him into whatever misadventure she had found. The chances of it making him feel any more depressed were unlikely, he told himself even as a chill went down his spine as he and Arya finally made it to the courtyard.

Servants and horse handlers had swarmed the column of mounted men and boys that had just re-entered Winterfell, taking the reins of horses and making it difficult to immediately recognize anyone through the crowd besides tall Lord Stark who was asking for some servant to bring Maester Luwin. Arya though moved through them with certainty, nimbly avoiding those in her away and helping him do the same.

When they finally reached the center of the mass, Arya finally let go of his head and ran to one of the guardsmen, who was awkwardly holding a bundle that seemed to have something moving within it.

 _No._

Robb and Bran were on their horses, both looking as ecstatic Arya did, though Robb tried to hide it with a cool grin. Jon was there as well, watching them on the side and holding a bundle of his own.

 _Oh God no. I'm not ready._

Arya quickly returned to him with two of the creatures in her hands. She was smiling at first but began to worry when she saw that he wasn't doing the same. If anything he looked terrified, standing in place his mouth agape.

Unperturbed and confident that the pups would make her sister happy again, Arya held them up for him so he could better see them up close.

"Look what Jon and Robb found, Sansa!" She said, speaking as if the pups were the most fascinating things in all the world. "Direwolves! Theon says they haven't been south of the Wall in centuries but here they are."

The dead man did not hear her. He simply stared at them, his heart racing even harder than it had when he screamed at his own reflection.

He turned and looked at his _family_ one by one and saw each of their fates play out in his mind.

A headless Eddard surrounded by tyrants and screaming smallfolk. A betrayed Jon bleeding to death in the snow. A mutilated Robb, his body being paraded around in the Twins. A crippled Bran lying comatose in bed and dreaming of ravens. And Arya with dead eyes, lurking in shadows and listing all the men she hoped to kill.

He wanted to be brave, to believe that it could all be avoided and that everybody could be saved. But no matter how much he tried to believe the same thought ran wild in his head.

 _We're all so screwed._

* * *

Author's Notes - While I can't make any promises, I'm going to try to update this every Sunday or over other Sunday. My weekdays are usually filled with work so I usually only have time to write on the weekends, with Friday night and Saturday being when I get most of my writing done and Sunday when I edit it all.

Anyways, I hope people like this chapter. It's obviously longer than my first, but I wanted to get the ball rolling on the plot while also getting an look into the SI's head. Not everything's been revealed about him yet, like what his name is (if he even remembers), his former occupation and how he got into ASOIAF. Those revelations will be explored later on, but for now I hope readers enjoy what's been revealed so far.

Advice, criticism and reviews are always welcome. Peace.


	3. Catelyn I

**CATELYN I**

The courtyard had become a riot of movement. Every which way she looked, Catelyn saw smallfolk and merchants bringing in their wares and performing their trades in a fever pitch. Farmers from all across the North had ridden to Winterfell, their wagons filled to the brim with clover, turnips, wheat, beans and a hundred other things. Likewise, hunters from the wolfswood came bringing their hard-earned game of pork, rabbit, duck, and deer in barrels filled with salt. Fishers from Stony Shore, shepherds from the Sheepshead Hills, tailors from White Harbor, woodworkers from Ironrath, they had all came like a tide and occupied Winterfell and the wintertown to the point of bursting. It had gotten so packed that guards were forced to turn people away lest the seat become completely overrun by peddlers and tradesmen.

Catelyn smiled. It had taken her days of writing carefully worded letters to almost every high lord in the North, conversing at length with Vayon Poole, and personally combing through Winterfell's ledgers and stockpiles, but it had been worth it. Although the royal family was still more than a fortnight away from Winterfell, Catelyn had a mind to see the castle well-stocked for the visit. She knew that while Northerners may disparage such pomp as wasteful her fellow southroners were of a different mind and would have thought it a deliberate slight not to be greeted by grander and excess.

While she had not seen the man in many years she knew that would be especially true of King Robert Baratheon, who even in his youth seemed to accept nothing but excess and indulgence by Catelyn's recollection.

Her Ned hated to hear such things, much preferring to think of his old friend as the boy he knew back in the Eyrie. Catelyn kept her tongue but still made her preparations nevertheless. Yes, Winterfell would be well-stocked in food, ale, and a host of other things, but whores would not be one them. She had already given the order to Jory Cassel to have his guards on alert for flesh peddlers seeking to earn a profit during the king's visit. It was ultimately a hopeless cause, she knew. Even if Jory managed to keep the whores out of Winterfell it was more than likely that Robert would find some serving girl more than willing to accept a kiss, and then some, from a king. Still, Catelyn had sworn to herself that would do all that she could to ensure that no royal bastard would be born in the walls of Winterfell. It was her duty as a Tully and a wife to be mindful of such things during the rare moments when her husband refused to be.

Turning from her bedchamber's window, Catelyn left the warm dwelling and made her rounds. There was still much to do before the king and queen arrived and the sun still hung high in the air.

She moved about Winterfell with purpose, first going down the hardstone steps of the Great Keep to confer with Vayon about their stock of salted pork and whether any of the hunters had played them false by selling them horseflesh. The rest of her process was much the same.

She inspected Hullen's expansion to the castle stables, gave Farlen leave to feed his hounds extra mutton from the castle stores so that they would be hale and strong for Robert's hunts, and once again reassured Septon Chayle that the sept would be made spotless and presentable by the time the king arrived.

It was only after talking at length with Barth the brewer, who reminded her that Robert alone downed three kegs of black beer in a single night the last time he visited Winterfell and that buying a few more would not leave House Stark destitute, that she recognized that the sun had fallen sharply that she allowed herself a short warm respite in her chambers.

Resting on the soft furs of her bed, Catelyn wished that her husband was here with her now. Though she would never admit it openly, lovemaking with Ned always helped her to relax after an egregious day. Alas, he was with Ser Rodrik and Robb, all of whom had set out with a small honor guard to meet Ned's younger brother Benjen on the Kingsroad.

It was just as good, she told herself. Even if he was in Winterfell their time together would have been scant and fleeting. So much still needed doing before the king arrived and Catelyn knew that her husband would see them done before he gave himself time for his own desires. The thought brought a small smile to her face.

Her Ned was a Stark to the bone, with his honor and cold humors, but in matters of duty and obligation, he very well could have been a Tully.

 _And what does that make me? Am I as much a Stark as a Tully?_

She had asked the question a hundred times and had never settled on an answer that left her satisfied even after more than fifteen years of being Lady Stark.

She could be hard, yes, when circumstance demanded she be so, but Catelyn never thought herself cold and reserved like her Ned could be at times.

 _What about the boy_ , a voice asked. _What of the bastard your husband brought home?_ _Are you not cold to him?_

The accusation was an old one. Ned would rarely mention it, but she knew that some part of him sorely wished for her to play the role of mother to the bastard boy and likely thought her cruel for refusing to do so.

Her daughters, on the other hand, weren't as subtly, or tactful for that matter, and would make their feelings known whenever they thought she had wronged the boy. Sansa especially could be vicious when it came to such things, always finding some colorful way to express her displeasure.

A knock on her door brought her abruptly out of her reverie and Catelyn was more than grateful for it.

Rising quickly from her bed, Catelyn went first to her mirror, softening her gown's creases and fixing her hair before she gave her visitor leave to enter. While she was sometimes annoyed by the obligation she knew it would not do for the Lady of Winterfell to be seen in any kind of dishevelment.

It was Alyn's kindly face that greeted her at the door.

While Alyn was no knight, Catelyn always considered him a man more than worthy of the title and the responsibilities it demanded. He was almost like her Bran in that way. Both their heads were filled with dreams of knighthoods and tourneys.

"My lady," he began, a fine courtesy following soon after. "Your daughter wishes to speak to you."

"Which one? Is it Sansa?" She asked. Though Catelyn loved both her daughters deeply and equally despite their lack of refinement, but it was Sansa's voice she longed for most at the moment.

Since their last argument she had not heard more than a few words from her eldest daughter. Yes, she was more pliant than ever and had not caused another embarrassment since, but her wishes had apparently come with a terrible cost. Her daughter had become a silent ghost in Winterfell, never speaking for long to anyone and always having a sad look upon on her face. Catelyn had sought answers from Arya and Jeyne but they seemed just as lost as she was when it came to the cause of her daughter's melancholy.

"Yes, my lady. Sansa is the one that begs an audience with you. What should I tell her?"

Catelyn smiled ear to ear. It was a smile of relief as well as joy.

"Tell her that her mother would love to see her and hear her voice." The words had come out in a rush and Catelyn felt half embarrassed for how obviously overjoyed she must have looked just to talk with her own daughter.

If Alyn had noticed as she had feared he gave no sign of it on his face. Instead, he simply shook his head in confirmation and closed the door once more.

 _She finally wants to speak with me_ , Catelyn thought happily.

It shouldn't have been this way she knew. She should have been the one to go to her daughter, but the Lady of Winterfell feared that doing so would only make Sansa turn even more inwards. It would not be the first time that her words had backfired she had to admit. Still, it was a dereliction of duty and Catelyn was determined to make up for it now.

Sansa came through the door wearing the blue gown Catelyn had made for her last nameday. She looked beautiful in it and the sight warmed Catelyn's heart more than her heated chamber ever could.

 _Perhaps she's finally abandoned playing the tomboy_ , she considered. It was a faint hope. Sansa was a strange child, to say the least, and a part of Catelyn feared that this might simply be another one of her daughter's little games.

Her first words reassured Catelyn to an extent.

"I first want to say I'm sorry. I know I haven't been very… present lately." Sansa said the words as sincerely as can be to Catelyn's ears, and her eyes, as blue as her own, seemed guileless.

 _She's ashamed_ , Catelyn recognized. It was a look that she had long learned to recognize in all her children. Through she loved them with all her heart, none of them were immune to the immaturity of youth and would frequently find themselves in some sort of mischief that demanded her attention.

Catelyn had expected such things from her sons, but her daughters had blindsided her. Lysa and her were no innocents, to be sure, but Sansa and Arya were something else altogether, seeming more like sons than daughters.

This rang especially true for Sansa, who seemed to despise the femininities that were expected of her with a fervor that far exceed Arya's.

For the longest time, Catelyn felt that she had failed her as a mother, that she was either to stern or to soft and the result was an errant daughter that seemed to hate her and all the wisdom she wished to impart upon her.

It wasn't always this way. Back when Sansa was no older than Rickon was now, she was a beautiful, happy child that loved to hear her mother's bedtime tales of southron knights and ladies. Although too young to fully understand them, she nevertheless was enthralled by the romantic stories of brave Symeon Star-Eyes, fair Maris the Maid and chivalrous Florian the Fool. More than that though, she was courteous and gentle, being always eager to listen and appease those around her.

Sansa was still beautiful, yes, but now she preferred Maester's retellings of old wars, Old Nan's tales of the ancient horrors of the Long Night and Maester's Luwin's studies at the Citadel.

 _She was my little lady_ , Catelyn remembered wistfully.

But looking at Sansa now, lovely in her blue gown and her hair almost back to its full length and luster, Catelyn dared to believe that maybe the Sansa of old had finally returned to her.

"Think nothing of it, sweetling," Catelyn said softly. "I know things were not settled the last time we spoke. Is that what has been troubling you?"

Catelyn wanted to say more. She wanted to ask whether Sansa was anger with her, if she thought that her recriminations were too harsh and if she knew that her mother loved her.

"No it's not about that," Sansa answered awkwardly, her voice hesitant and sounding unsure of the truth of her own words. "I know why you said those things. And I think… I think it was best that I heard them."

Catelyn heard the doubt in her daughter's voice but did not mention it. _Let her admit the truth in her own time_ , she judged.

For a few moments nothing but awkward silence filled Catelyn's chambers as Sansa seemed to prepare herself what she had to say next. For a moment Catelyn thought to ask Sansa whether she wished to sit down but thought better of it. _She's always preferred to speak while standing tall_ , she mused, strangely proud.

"Do you think Father will become Hand of the King?" Sansa blurted out the words quickly and suddenly as if they had been boiling inside her for the longest time. They took Catelyn aback at first, surprised that Sansa would even think of such matters.

Before she could even make her reply Sansa was already elaborating on her words.

"Jon Arryn is dead," she declared. "He was the last Hand and the king must be coming to Winterfell to make Father his new one." The apprehension in her voice was gone now. In its place was a certainty that put Catelyn on edge.

Ned had told all the children of Lord Arryn's passing shortly after he learned of it himself. None of them had ever met the man before, but they knew of him through their father, who many a time would speak of his wardship in the Eyrie with Robert when both were just boys.

"It's possible," Catelyn admitted. It was the first she had openly expressed the possibility, though in truth she had thought of it constantly. Ned and Robert were like brothers and it would not have been strange for the latter to appointment the former as his new Hand. Still, Catelyn did not think it likely to occur. There were many other men whom Robert could choose. The haughty Tywin Lannister, the stolid Stannis Baratheon or even her own father could just as well be made Hand. Furthermore, Catelyn knew in her heart that Ned would not take the office even if Robert begged him too. Starks are made for the North, she remembered him saying solemnly.

"But not likely, I think," she said with a reassuring smile. So that it is then. She fears her father leaving to go south. The answer brought Catelyn comfort. It was more than understandable for a daughter to fear her father leaving her because of some faraway duty. Memories of weeping for her own father's return after he first went off to speak with dead Lord Rickard Stark sprung immediately to Catelyn's mind.

Sansa's next words brought Catelyn out of her reminiscing and made her worry all other again.

"But what if he did? What if he felt compelled to accept?" Slight panic had entered her tone and her eyes, so certain before, had given way to franticness.

"Then he'll make his judgment and do what he thinks is right," Catelyn said simply, but kindly.

It was the truth. A hard one, to be sure, but the truth nonetheless. Ned would make whatever choice he thought was best and his family would have to accept and support it. It was the way of the world, she knew, a reality that Catelyn had learned to accept long ago even if some small part of her still bristled at it.

"And what about you?" She demanded. "What if you convinced him not to? It's dangerous in the south, you know that. King's Landing is filled with liars, turncoats, and lickspittles. All the histories say as much. What if they hurt Father?"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Sansa," Catelyn countered. "Those books are centuries old and are about the courts of past kings and a different House altogether."

She moved towards her daughter then and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I know you're afraid, but even if your father were to leave to be Hand you know that he'd be doing so because he thought it was best for us and the Realm. It's his duty to think beyond his own wants and desires, Sansa. You have to understand that."

Sansa reacted to her words by jerking her shoulder away, startling Catelyn. "You don't understand," she said, shaking her head. "He needs to be here. You have to tell him that. He'll listen to you."

Catelyn's face dropped. It suddenly felt as if all the weariness from her earlier had come back with a vengeance. She wanted to say something, anything that could console her daughter but found her voice lost to her at the moment.

"Just please promise me that you'll make Father refuse. That you won't tell him to go," Sansa pleaded, her voice urgent and filled with desperation.

 _She's terrified_ , Catelyn realized, shocked. She could see it in her eyes.

It would have been so easy to tell her what she wanted to hear. To simply lie to her with comforting words. But Catelyn couldn't do it. She wanted Ned to leave for the south as much as Sansa did, but if duty were to compel her to let such a thing happen, who was she to deny its call? _A wife_ , one small voice claimed. _And a mother who wishes to calm her daughter's fears_. She pushed the thoughts aside and said what had to be said.

"I'm sorry Sansa but I can't promise that." The words were so cold and solemn that Catelyn was surprised that she had spoken them.

Sansa simply started at her, saying nothing. Her were fists clenched and her mouth a tight grimace.

For a second or two Catelyn feared that her daughter would say something cruel and cutting, but in the end she did nothing of the sort.

Taking her eyes away from her mother, Sansa looked to the floor for a moment and said something under her breath that Catelyn could not make out. When she turned back to face her mother again, her voice was sickly sweet.

"I understand. You're right, of course. I'm being foolish. Father will do what he must. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

And with that, she turned from her and left the room without even saying a goodbye.

Stunned and exhausted, Catelyn returned to her bed. A hundred emotions seemed to occupy her mind at once but the one that gained supremacy over them all was the fact that she was wrong.

 _I can be a cold as a Stark._

* * *

Author's Notes - Sorry this is coming out a bit late. The ending of this chapter kind of had me stumped for a while before I was able to make a breakthrough and get it done. Still not sure it's exactly how I wanted it but I think it ultimately works. Hope people aren't to disappointed that not much happens in this chapter besides drama. It's setup for the next one but I'd understand if you thought it was a bit sparse. FYI, Catelyn is one of my favorite characters in the series, so getting opportunity to explore her headspace and show her running Winterfell was a personal treat. The next chapter will likely (hopefully) be two weeks from now on a Sunday.

Advice, criticism and reviews are always welcome. Peace.


	4. The Dead Man II

**THE DEAD MAN II**

Walking alone in the crypts of Winterfell, the dead man looked for his hidden quarry. Even with a torch in hand, walking down the crypt was treacherous. The crypt's steps were steppe and many of them had partially crumbled, making some alarmingly shorter than the others. The dead man had to constantly look to his feet to make sure that he would not make a misstep. It would only take one after all to send him tumbling down into the abyss, a prospect that made him sweat despite the crypt's icy air. How Arya and Bran were able to brave them so easily the dead man had no clue. The confidence of youth, he supposed.

Slowly and mindfully he descended down the steps, a steadying hand always on the wall. As he went down the levels he counted them off one by one until he knew he had reached his destination.

It was one of the lowest levels and was accordingly ancient, with dust and webs clinging almost everywhere like a fresh coat of paint. The faces of long-dead Stark kings watched him as he looked around for his quarry, most of their faces having rotten away by time. The only the way the dead man could have been able to tell who these old Kings of Winter once were would be by reading their epitaphs, though many of them had been eaten away by time as well.

It was when he had found the still whole face of King Jorgen Stark that he finally stopped. Illuminated by the dead man's torch, the deceased king's stone face seemed to come alive. It had the same long features, hard eyes and long hair as many of the other faces in the crypt but distinguished itself by having a closely-trimmed beard rather than a long and wild one. For a brief moment, the dead man mused just how much the dead king looked like his father.

 _Your father was an accountant, not a lord or king. Remember that. Always remember that. If you forgot that this world will finally have you._

The dead man knew the words to be true but it was becoming harder every day to stand by them. How was he supposed to defend one family without losing the last memories of another? The dead man didn't have an answer to that, so he simply pushed the thought away and focused on what lay before him.

Setting his torch on a nearby fixture to free his hand, the dead man knelt down and reached into a small wedge of space between Jorgen's tomb and another. Even with the torch hanging on the wall the gap looked like a black pit of nothingness. After feeling around inside it for a few moments the dead man finally caught a hold of something and brought it out of the darkness.

In his hands was a small book covered in dust. It possessed no title and the rest of the cover was likewise bare.

Although the dead man liked to think of the book as his war journal in truth it was a diary.

Originally, when he was no older than Bran was now, he kept it in a large jewelry box Catelyn had given him for his sixth nameday and childishly hide it under his bed. That changed when Arya had found it by accident when she was playing a game of rats and cats with Jon, having apparently gotten it in her head that going under her sister's bed was the best place to hide. While Arya was too young to understand what was in it at the time, the dead man's paranoia had been raised and he started hiding the diary in the last place he thought anyone would find it.

The dead man wiped away the dust that had accumulated on the diary's surface since the last time he'd seen it and opened the diary delicately, doing his best not to accidentally rip the aging cover.

The diary was a mix of entries, it detailed whatever had happened on a given day in Winterfell, recollections about his old life, and lastly "plot points" that he desired to immortalize on paper lest he forgot them over time like he did so many other things. Out of the three entries about his old life were the fewest in number.

It was that he didn't want to write about his first life. If he could he'd write an autobiography about every facet of it and everyone who had a part in making him the man he was before his first death. But it was impossible. Even from his earliest moments of awakening in the body of Sansa Stark, his memories were cloudy and fragmented, being able to recall something trivial and obscure like who Chett or Jack Chalker was but utterly at a loss when it came to remembering entire chunks of his childhood and teenage years.

It was a problem that had only gotten worse over time and it was the primary reason why he made the diary in the first place. It was his lifeline to everything he once was and a part of him believed that if he just kept writing into it whenever he remembered something than his old life would never truly be gone.

 _How can you still remember Chett's name by not your own family's?_ A sneering voice accused in his mind.

The dead man felt compelled to reply, not sure whether he'd argue with the voice or admit his shame, but kept his tongue instead. Even alone in the darkness of the crypt, with nothing but the bones and statues of dead kings to judge him, the dead man would not respond to the voices anymore. Only a madman would talk to voices in his head and he wasn't crazy. Wasn't he?

 _Just don't think about it._ The comforting mantra came to him automatically and the dead man did his best to do just that.

Forcing himself to focus on the diary in his hands, he thumbed through its pages and looked for the reason why he had braved the perilous steps of the crypt.

He found the page he wanted quickly and looked it over. Written in large letters above it was simply the title 'Bran II.' It was one of the earliest plot points he had put to paper and it described everything he could remember about the titular chapter.

Scribbled beside the summary of events were bulletins that detailed plans and strategies he had thought of over the years on how to avert them and how best to deal with the Lannister twins in particular. Some things had been scribbled out, rewritten more clearly, or just abandoned mid-sentence.

Reading it all over again the dead man suddenly felt overwhelmed.

"There are too many butterflies," he realized, his voice echoing in the darkness. "Change one thing and the whole story might shift into something else. Something worse."

Even if he played it safe, stopped Bran from climbing the broken tower and exposed Jamie and Cersei in the act than what would that mean for three-eyed crow plot? Did Bran have to be crippled and put in a coma for his powers to awaken? Without them could he even be of help to the last greenseer? And if not, would the Others win their war against the living without his power to stop them?

Then there was Tywin. The moment he learned his golden twins were imprisoned or executed, he'd call all the banners of the Westerlands and go to war against Robert. Of that the dead man was sure. Tywin Lannister wouldn't be able to stomach the humiliation of his children being exposed as the maladjusted deviants they were and would probably burn all of Westeros if it meant his honor would be maintained.

 _The man forced his own son to rape his wife because marrying a peasant girl was beneath his station. God knows what he'd do if the incest was ever revealed,_ his face grimacing with disgust as he thought of the violation.

And what about the innocents that would be caught in the crossfire once the incest was exposed right here in Winterfell? Joffrey was a monster, and even thinking about all the things he had done to the real Sansa made his skin crawl.

If he was killed by Robert in a rage the dead man knew he'd shed no tears over it, but what about Myrcella and Tommen? They were just normal children but they'd be killed too, going from the progeny of the king to bastards born of incest, utter abominations worthy of only death in Westeros. Could he really let that happen if it meant the Starks would be saved?

The dead man had no answers to that, or to any of the other questions. His old notes weren't nearly helpful as he'd hoped, many of them being too far-fetched or optimistic to actual work without their being severe consequences.

A small part of him didn't care though.

 _So what if Bran doesn't become the three-eyed crow? So what if Tywin goes to war? So what if Tommen and Myrcella die? Bran's your brother in almost every way that matters. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you let that smug, sister-fucking bastard make him a cripple._

It was true, the very idea of doing so sent a chill down his spine that made the stale, cold air of the crypt feel like a summer breeze.

But what else could he do? Convince Bran not to climb that day, a difficult prospect in of itself, but not expose the Lannisters? That would save Bran, but what about everyone else? Even if Bran wasn't crippled Eddard would still get the letter from Lysa, and Maester Luwin and Catelyn would still convince him to take the Handship.

A spike of something hot and cold washed over him then. _She should have listened to me. If she had this would be so much easier. I wouldn't have to worry about Eddard going south or me and Arya being forced to go with him._

The dead man pulled at a lock his hair as if the pain would drown out his anger.

Going to her was a mistake. He knew that the moment he left Catelyn's chamber's defeated and furious, but he couldn't it help but think of it again.

"Everything there had been a mistake," he confessed to the dark, his voice a harsh whisper.

 _The pleading, the panicking, even wearing the damn dress. It was all a mistake. I should have gone to Luwin or gone directly to Eddard,_ he realized bitterly. The chances of either them listening to his warnings would have still been slim, to be sure, but at least their rejection wouldn't have been as painful.

It seemed like no matter how hard he tried to set things right with the Lady of Winterfell inevitably their relationship would return to a thorny mess of disappointment and broken promises. It made the dead man wonder if his relationship with his real mother had been as trying.

 _She thinks I'm mad. That I'm just a little girl that needs to grow up. I can always see it in her eyes. That_ _ **look**_ _._ The dead man had seen it that day in Catelyn's chambers and the memory of it made him clench his teeth and hold the diary so tightly that its edges dug sharply into his hands.

He wanted to scream that it wasn't true. That he wasn't mad, childish or playing the tomboy. He wanted to tell someone, anyone, the truth of who he was and all he knew.

But he couldn't. He couldn't do it when Arya begged to and he couldn't do it when Jeyne held him close and whispered kind words as he cried on her shoulder after his failure with Catelyn.

Now, look where he was. In a crypt, a literal dead end, with nothing but a book of half thought out schemes as his only salvation.

He needed help. Someone to talk to about all this madness. But he was alone, perhaps now more than ever.

The dead man dropped the diary on Jorgen's tomb and put a hand to his tired face.

He'd been an angsty fool, letting adolescent hormones and fear get the better of him. Pushing everyone way had done him no good. All he had accomplished since the direwolves were found was waste precious time sulking alone with nothing but the recriminations of the voices and his still nameless direwolf to keep him company.

The dead man thought back to the last time he had truly talked earnestly with Arya. When he almost told her the truth.

 _Arya, Bran, Robb, Jon, little Rickon, Eddard, even Catelyn sometimes. They made all of this survivable. How could I think keeping them away would make any of this easier? I need them as much as they need me._

The epitaph was like a panacea, curing him a self-inflicted ailment.

He still couldn't tell them the truth, but he didn't have to play the cunning mastermind trying to manipulate events from the shadows either. It wasn't his forte anyway, as his failure with Catelyn had proved. He wouldn't be able to simply demand that certain things be done either. He was Sansa Stark after all, not Robb or Eddard, though he often wished that he was. Girls had no place on war councils or the small council. But he could still nudge things, spin knowledge of the future into wise counsel for his family.

What had Eddard called it? Out of the mouth of babes?

"Yes," he said aloud, getting caught up in the emotion of it all. "I can do that." The words sounded more like an oath than a statement and the dead man found it appropriate.

A cool sense of calm he had not felt in days came over him. With purpose, he picked up the diary once more and returned to Bran II, reading it all once again and the next few chapters after it.

He'd already been in the crypts for too long and knew someone would begin to worry and ask around for where he was if he lingered there any longer. A decision had to be made here and now.

And so he made one.

He would not let Bran fall. Bloodraven and whatever plans he had for him be damned. He'd wait for the last hunt, when Eddard, Robert and a few others went to satisfy the king's favorite hobby other than drinking and whoring. That would be the day Bran would climb the broken tower and catch Jamie and Cersei in the act. The diary had at least reminded him of that much.

He would have to find some way to distract Bran away from the tower. Perhaps getting Arya to challenge him to a game of rats and cats in the godswood would work? The last time Bran played against her she had caught him half a dozen times as the cat and Bran failed to return the favor even once. That had wounded his pride some, the dead man remembered, and he knew that he'd want to play against her one last time before they left for King's Landing.

That would be the easy part. The hard part would be leading someone of importance to the tower to bear witness to the incest. No would take his word alone after all. It was just a simple fact, he knew, but it all the same put him in a dark mood for a moment.

 _It would have to be either Master Luwin or Jeyne's father,_ he estimated, trying to regain his focus.

Catelyn was out of the question, even if her station meant that she'd be believed more than Luwin or Vayon.

 _She'd never believe me anyway. She'd just look aghast, shake her and give me that_ _ **look**_ _again._ The dead man didn't think he had it in him to endure that again without breaking the closest thing in sight and using every swear word he could still remember from his old life.

Getting either of the two men to go to the tower would be difficult, but not impossible he theorized. All it would take was a bait they couldn't resist.

A false sighting of a wounded raven near the tower may be enough to rouse Luwin. He treated those birds as if they were his own children and the dead man had seen him go to great lengths to save just one of them.

Vayon though would only need him to say he saw a guard and a prostitute go to the tower alone. The dead man had overheard two guardsmen complaining about Jory's orders to keep "the whores out of the Winterfell" and how that meant they wouldn't be able to spend their coin on a certain beauty from the wintertown. The dead man was certain that if Jory was following such an order to the letter than Vayon would be too. The man was diligent about such things and would be furious that a guard of Winterfell had failed in their duty. Knowing him he'd want to chastise such a guard in person.

There were still dangerous variables to sort out. Jamie wasn't likely to simply surrender if he and Cersei were caught. The man was willing to murder a child to keep his secret, murdering Vayon and Luwin would be no big thing for him either. How could he ensure that neither of them didn't end up killed?

A headache was beginning to form and the dead man wished not for the first time that he had a handy supply of Advil with him.

He would have to think on it more before the Lannister's arrived. Once they did, he feared that constant feasts and social obligations would take up much of his free time.

But even if everything turned out as he hoped, what then? When Robert and Eddard returned from their hunt and learn of what's been "discovered," everything would change. Much what he had written down in the diary and his own memories of the book's events would be useless. He'd be lost. Unaware of what the future held just like everyone else.

 _But your brother will be safe and whole. Tywin, the three-eyed crow, Joffrey, and all the miserable schemers in King's Landing, none of them matter compared to keeping him safe,_ a voice reassured him.

"But what about Myrcella and Tommen?" He reminded himself, his voice shaking. "What about them? I can't… I can't just let Robert kill them? I'd be a monster if I did."

When the voice replied its words were as familiar and seductive as an old love.

 _Sometimes you have to lose a little of yourself to get what you want._

* * *

Author's Notes - Well I sure learned a lesson in hubris. Keeping a schedule for a fanfic apparently doesn't stand much chance against RL getting in the way. Sorry y'all. I'll try to be better but no promises. Anyways, the events of this chapter were originally going to be much shorter. Just a few flashback paragraphs and that revealed what the SI had been planning since Catelyn I. But then I really got into describing the crypts, the SI's plans, and mental space and ended up with a full chapter even without all the other stuff I originally wanted to squeeze in here. How about that!

Advice, criticism and reviews are always welcome. Peace.


	5. The Dead Man III

**THE DEAD MAN III**

As he waited with half of Winterfell in the courtyard, the dead man couldn't help but think that standing there might have been one of the most nerve-wracking things he been forced to do since he arrived in Westeros.

The raven that had arrived that morning said the royal family was making good progress on the Kingsroad, the snow having delayed them little, and that it would only take a few hours for them to finally make their appearance.

It sure didn't feel like it though, at least to him. Every hour and minute seemed to drag on longer than the next and he would have started pacing right there in the courtyard in front of everyone if he thought he could get away with it.

Instead, he looked around to see if any of the others were as agitated. The Stark children had all been put into a row — near the gate but behind Eddard and Catelyn — from oldest to the youngest, with Robb to the left of him and Arya, Bran and Rickon to the right.

Robb looked more impatient than anything else, quietly huffing as if he was about to ask Eddard and Catelyn when the king would finally arrive. Arya was little better, fidgeting with hair and looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. Bran tried to play the attentive lording, his back straight, and hands to his sides, but his eyes were fixated on the castle's walls and towers. Rickon just seemed lost, constantly look towards the rest of them for guidance on what to do next.

Jon wasn't with them, of course. He stood beside Benjen and Jory to the far side of the courtyard, in a crowd just thick enough that it would have been hard to pick out him even if you knew what he looked like.

When the dead man looked towards him their eyes meet and Jon did his best to make an easy smile out of the hard grimace he had just been wearing. The dead man would have smiled back but a horn blast made him snap back to the gate.

The royal family had arrived.

Seeing them all pool through the gates was eerie. He had gotten used to looking at the Starks as living breathing people in their own right — not characters described in a book or portrayed by actors. Seeing the contrast between his own image of what the royal family looked like and the reality before him brought back an old dissonance that made him squirm in morbid fascination at the differences.

Martin couldn't do Robert justice with words alone. Neither could Mark Addy for that matter. The man wasn't just fat, he was _vast_. A more than six foot giant with thick black hair on his head and chin, wearing a doublet that seemed on the verge of bursting at the seams. Robert looked more like Hagrid after a year-long binge than the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. When the dead man saw him pull Eddard into a hug, a part of him couldn't help but fear that the king would accidentally snap him in half with his tree-trunk arms.

Just like in the books Jamie, Joffrey, Tyrion, and the Hound rode behind him. The dead man hated himself for thinking it but side by side it was so much easier to see just how ugly Tyrion and Sandor were compared to the Lannisters.

Jamie looked like someone out a men's health magazine. Chiseled features, immaculate golden hair, and a smile that seemed too white and perfect to exist in a world that's idea of dentistry was a maester using pliers.

Even when he forced himself to remember that this was the same man that would try to kill Bran it was hard to look away from him.

Joffrey was worse. The dead man always imagined him looking like the quintessential spoiled brat — overly groomed hair, beady eyes and a perpetual pout on his face that made you just want to punch him. He was supposed to be an obvious monster that would have been immediately recognizable as the little shit he was.

But he wasn't. No matter how hard the dead man looked at the boy in front him he didn't seem like a monster. In fact, he acted quite the opposite.

When the rest of his family left their gilded wheelhouse, the prince briskly dismounted from his horse and joined them in greeting the Stark children, doing so with a smile plastered firmly on his face.

He went to Robb first and greeted him like him he was a long-lost brother, refusing to shake his hand and instead of pulling him to a hug, all the while making a joke about Robert and expectations that managed to get a genuine laugh out of Robb.

When the prince turned to greet him in kind he stuck his hand out and for a second the dead man didn't want to do with it.

Up close he looked so much like Jamie it seemed absurd that it took so long for anyone to realize that he wasn't Robert's. He had his true father's same golden hair, vivid green eyes, and handsome features, just in a more boyish frame.

He was handsome. It was just a fact, he told himself. Noting it was like admitting snow was cold. It meant nothing. It had to.

It took Robb faking a cough for him to snap him out of his gazing and finally accept Joffrey's hand. When he kissed it the dead man had to fight the urge to recoil.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady," the he greeted. "I hope your family wasn't stuck out in the cold waiting for us for too long?"

"Of course not, my prince," he replied courteously.

He knew he should have just stopped there and let the prince move on to the others but the dead man couldn't but help make a dig at him.

"We Starks are well-accustomed to the cold. In truth, I was more concerned for you and your family, my prince," he said feigning concern, even putting a hand to his heart. "Our northern climate must be quite harsh for one raised in the south."

Joffrey raised a brow that, but his smile never left his face.

"You do have me there, my lady," he admitted, laughing shamelessly. "I would have preferred to stay in the wheelhouse, but my lord father was of a different mind and where he goes I must follow, I'm afraid."

The response made him do a double take.

It had to be an act, he figured. George glossed Joffrey's first meeting with Sansa in the books, so the dead man was flying blind, but it was hard to imagine that things played out like this. Robb laughing at Joffrey's jokes and the humble prince routine felt off-script.

Then again it wasn't as if Joffrey was incapable of turning on the charm when forced to do so. He did trick the real Sansa after all. The dead man used to think she was an idiot for falling for it in the books, but seeing Joffrey now, smiling as he was, he started to realize why she did and that scared more than anything.

He suddenly wanted to be anywhere else but near him. "I'm sorry to hear that, my prince."

"Oh, you needn't worry. It's just one of those miserable things that a prince must suffer through," he explained with a grin that looked more than ready to eat every pile of horseshit in the courtyard.

A somewhat confused "As you say," was all the dead man could think to say. The prince seemed to take that as his cue to move on and greet the others, but before he did he flashed him one last bright smile.

After that bizarre encounter, he meet with Myrcella and Tommen. They were exactly how he expected them to be – shy polite children who were painfully normal if you forgot that their parents were siblings. The dead man didn't speak to them for long, quickly making his courtesies sending them down the line.

When the exchange of pleasantries was finally over Robert told Eddard that he wished to go down to the crypts to see Lyanna. He and Cersei had their showdown, just as they were supposed to, and the strangely clash made him relieved.

When that was settled the dead man and rest of the Stark children were marched back to the Great Keep to ready themselves for the welcoming feast while the royal party was guided to the Guest House on the other side of the courtyard.

As he walked to the keep a thousand little thoughts were playing in his head when Robb decided he wanted to ask him a question.

"I saw you staring at the prince the moment he arrived," he said smirking. "Have you fallen in love with him already?"

The dead man responded in his usual way when Robb decided to ape Theon and shoved an elbow into his sides without losing his pace. Robb just laughed it off as he always did but put a palm where he had hit him.

Arya came up beside him then. "Did Robb say something stupid again?" She asked.

"Can you think any other reason for why I'd hit our beloved brother?" He said plainly.

"No," Arya admitted, giggling to herself.

The dead man just sighed and kept walking, somehow more frustrated than he had been when he was waiting for the royal party to arrive.

 _Nothing has changed,_ he told himself. _The Lannisters still needed to be exposed. I just need to keep my head down and stay focused on the plan. Everything will be fine._

Even in the sanctity of his own mind, the reassurance felt weak.

What if something had changed?

The dead man never really took the concept of the butterfly effect all that seriously in his first life. The idea always sounded too abstract and vague for his liking, only making sense in specific cases. Here in Westeros though it was all he could think about sometimes.

How would this action impact later events? Would doing X led to Y or Z? Could that person be saved by just telling them X or would that make everything worse?

All that guesswork and wondering had given him more headaches than he cared to admit and it often felt like he was pointlessly trying to herd an army of feral cats without knowing how to do so and where he was supposed to put them all.

The dead man took in a breath of cold air.

 _Difficult or not it has to be done,_ he reminded himself. Things were happening now and he couldn't afford to be hesitant. Not anymore. The Lannisters were here in Winterfell with only a couple hundred men, and even then the dead man doubted many of them would be willing to die to protect Jamie and Cersei, or their progeny, when their king finally learned the truth.

If he played his cards right the whole War of Five Kings could be stopped right here in Winterfell before it could even begin, leaving the North united and strong enough to deal with the Others when their existence couldn't be denied any longer.

That was the plan anyway. Whether it would survive that idiot Balon's invasion, Daenerys and her dragons, and all the others plots and schemes brewing in the south and Essos was another matter entirely.

So it didn't matter if replacing Sansa somehow caused Joffrey of all people to become less of a bastard than he already was. He had to stay the course or risk everything else turning out as it did in the books.

That's what he told himself anyway, and it seemed true enough to allay his fears and guilt.

Just before they entered the keep and went to their separate chambers to prepare for Robert's welcoming feast, Arya spoke up again.

"Do you still think you'll have to marry him?" She asked hesitantly, sounding as if she was afraid her words would scare him off. "The prince, I mean. Do you think you're going to have to marry him?"

The dead man stopped and looked at her for a moment, thinking over what he should say. An old phrase immediately came to mind and dead man had to struggle not to simply use it and again end the conversation right there. It would have been easier but something compelled him to give his sister different answer.

His words were cold and hard, and the dead man could see how they made Arya's face light up in surprise. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

* * *

Author's Notes - Sorry this took so long to finally come out. Between going on vacation for a week, work and random IRL stuff I got busy and didn't have much time to write. Plus, I've come to something of a crossroads where I'm not sure if I should continue the story as it is or give it a rewrite and take it in a different direction. Specifically I conflicted about how I want to deal with a certain inbred prince. But whatever, I'll figure it out! Anyways with that all said...

Advice, criticism and reviews are always welcome. Peace.


	6. The Dead Man IV

**THE DEAD MAN IV**

 _You're weak,_ he admitted dismally. _Weak and indulgent._

The accusation did little to stop him from cramming _another_ lemon cake into his mouth.

He could still faintly remember never liking the treats back in his first life, having found them too sweet for his tastes and always feeling as if he was on the verge of a heart attack whenever he ate one.

But he couldn't resist the things now. Their taste and smell just seemed to set off something in him that overruled his brain. It was just one of these eerie Sansa things that he couldn't will away no matter how hard he tried.

After he was done with the cake he swore to himself that it would be his last and chased it down with a nearby cup of ice water.

The dead man looked at the drained cup and sighed. He would have preferred more wine to water if only to savor the taste again, but Eddard was adamant that one was all any of his children would have during the king's welcoming feast.

Even Robb wasn't exempted, though he kicked up a fuss when Father told him no.

"But the prince is allowed drink as much as he wants and I'm older than him," he argued, sounding every bit the fourteen-year-old boy he was. "I'm almost a man grown. It's not fair, Father!"

The Lord of Winterfell had given his heir one of his trademark disappointed but understanding father looks, a gesture the dead man had grown quite familiar with over the years, and told him that being almost a man grown still did not make him a man and that he would not broker any more arguments.

Robb didn't stew in his high chair for long though. He had been placed next to Joffrey on the feasting table just as he was and the prince had managed to swiftly break the lording out of his brooding with little more than a few jokes and a bawdry tale about some shameless girl in Highgarden.

Seeing them together made him uneasy and jealous at the same time.

 _They should hate each other. That's how things are supposed to go._

The idea that this was all just some elaborate act on Joffrey's part seemed more absurd as the feast went on and the two heirs continued to one-up each other with their stories.

Every once in a while he'd would try to catch of glance of Cersei at the table and check for any sign that she was looking at her golden bastard in approval for playing his part in some Lannister scheme. He only got the sight of a very bored looking Cersei for his troubles, who between giving false smiles and courtesies to her hosts would look at her drunken king and husband with barely contained loathing.

 _No wonder everyone with half a brain in King's Landing found out that she was cheating on Robert. She can barely manage to hide her contempt for the man._

He almost couldn't fault her for it though. Robert had drunk so much black beer during the feast that Barth had to bring up several more kegs from the castle seller to accommodate his thirst. The king seemed determined to drink them all and his retinue of knights and guardsmen were more than willing to join their king in his debauchery.

Joffrey was apparently of a similar mind. He had been taking great gulps of black beer since the feast started and had begun to slur his words some while he told Robb his tales. Robb didn't seem to mind though and even egged the prince on.

 _They're such boys,_ the dead man thought wistfully, staring at the happy pair with naked envy.

He could only remember his own boyhood in snips and still images, but he believed it was much like this. Good friends talking about stupid things and enjoying each other's company. Or maybe he just hoped it was? He didn't know for sure and likely never would.

 _I could be fifty and I still wouldn't be able to drink or talk like Joffrey is now. It would be untoward for a highborn woman after all._

The thought was an old one that had come up in one way or another thousand times before but it still tasted like bitter ashes in his mouth.

He grabbed another lemon cake from the feasting table and ate it angrily in two bites, hoping that maybe its sweetness would dull his anger before someone noticed that Sansa Stark looked as if she wanted to murder the crown prince with her stare alone.

 _You sound like Robb now,_ the voice noted with contempt _. Kill the boy, dead man. The one within and the one without. You'll never be happy and safe until you do._

He took one deliberate breath and sighed. He wouldn't respond. It would only give his madness more power and he had to be sharp now more than ever. Soon Robert would go on his hunt and the golden twins would find themselves caught abed together and then everything would change. None of that could happen if he was busy debating with voices in his head.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to have some company, if only to drown out the whispers in his head.

Scanning the hall he was able to find Jeyne quick enough. She was with her father at the tables beneath the raised platform, her father's station as steward giving her the honor of being seated near all the important people.

Even still, the chances of her hearing him through the miasma of loud drunken revelry all around them were slim. Not that it mattered much anyway. It simply would not do for the Lord of Winterfell's eldest daughter to be speaking with a lowly steward's child at a feast when she should be conversing with the heir apparent to the Iron Throne.

The dead man shallowed that truth bitterly too.

He had been a mopey ass to Jeyne since the wolves were found and he realized everything was about to begin. He had avoided her like he did everyone else, spurning her concern and only seeing her when the loneliness got too much for him. Even then he would say little, answering none of her questions and leaving her more confused than ever.

The dead man dug his nails sharply into his thigh at the memory. _It was pathetic,_ he confessed through the pain, making sure that no one would be able to hear him groan.

 _I owed her more than that._

After his fight with Catelyn, he made sure to apologize to her, making up an excuse for his melancholy and begging her for forgiveness. She accepted it, as she always did, but it did little to alleviate his shame.

 _When this all over I'll find her a marriage. A good one. It's the best she can hope in this world and it's all she wants. Domeric would be a decent enough choice. He's kind and he owes me one for saving his life._

The heir to the Dreadfort had guested in Winterfell only a year before while he was making his way back to his father's seat from the Vale. Jeyne had thought him gallant and handsome but the dead man knew him to be too trusting for his own good. Seeing the opportunity he had made sure that the boy was reminded of the dangerous nature of bastards by Catelyn herself. It only took him innocently mentioning Domeric's decision to see his bastard brother at dinner one night to get her to have a private audience with the boy the very next day. He spoke no more about visiting Ramsay after that, and when a year had passed and there was no news of Domeric's sudden death, he figured his scheme had paid off.

What that change meant for the future he could not say for certain, but he figured anything had to better than Ramsay becoming Roose's heir and rabid attack dog.

 _I did that much at least, he allowed himself to admit. Domeric, Jeyne, old lady Donella. They might never have to suffer that freak's depravity because of me._

The dead man released his grip on his thigh then. He could still feel a sting there but it was already starting to fade.

He looked towards Arya. She had been paired with Prince Tommen just as he had with Joffrey and was sitting on the other side of the feasting table. She was playing with her food and looking almost as bored as Cersei as the little prince beside her nervously talked to her about his favorite cats.

 _I'm going to save her too._ The thought made him feel taller than he was.

He would have come to her rescue right then and there with a hail from across the table and better conversation but was stopped before he could even raise his voice by a hand suddenly gripping his arm.

His heart raced when he felt the touch and it did not it subside when he realized who had done the deed.

The dead man turned to see a red-faced Joffrey wearing the same shit-eating grin that he had worn in the courtyard.

"My lady," he began, pausing for a moment as if having trouble remembering what he wanted to say. "I fear that I've allowed myself to get carried away with your brother and left you starved for company."

The dead man couldn't help but think that was something of an understatement given that he had been drinking and gossiping with Robb for over an hour now without so much as a glance towards his way, but didn't bother to mention that.

"It was no great offense, my prince. I've been able to manage without your presence for more than twelve years. An hour or to two is nothing."

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

 _That was stupid. Sansa would never have said something like that to Joffrey. No highborn lady would have._

Joffrey didn't seem to the mind the jape though. Instead, he laughed and slammed his hand on the table.

"Robb said you were a frosty one. I should have believed him after that you made that jape about the cold."

 _So he did notice._ "My brother exaggerates, I assure you. I truly meant no offense," he lied.

"Oh make your offense if you want. Everyone needs to take a jape every once in a while, even a prince." He shrugged his shoulders and lazily gestured towards the man he called his father.

"That's what my kingly father says anyway. And the king is always right, eh?" He broke out into another round of chuckles then, as if that was the funniest thing in all the world.

The dead man found it so less and tried to put the small talk to rest. "As you say, my-"

Joffrey swiftly cut him off with a raised hand. "Stop it with the 'my prince,' I beg you. Joffrey will do much better, I think."

He took another swig of his ale then, drinking deeply and longingly before putting the cup right back down with a slam that went unnoticed by the rest of the table.

"Seven preserve me I needed that," he muttered to himself.

When the prince spoke again his breath was so lit with ale that the dead man had to stop himself from gagging from the smell.

"Anyways, where was I? Ah yes, names. Call me Joffrey, or even Joff if you'd prefer. Your brother does, you know, so why not you as well? In turn, may I call you Sansa? It's a very pretty Northern name. Suits you, I think."

He couldn't help but form a mirthless smile at that. _If only you knew._

Joffrey didn't seem to notice that the smile didn't reach his eyes and just kept on talking.

"There we go, I got a smile out of you! Robb said it would be impossible but there it is."

"You must be very proud," he replied, coolly.

"Oh very much so. But I'd be prouder still if I knew why you hate me so."

The dead man's eyes narrowed slightly and his face became an expressionless mask. "You must be very drunk, Joffrey. I don't hate you," he lied again.

The prince just shook his head like a disappointed parent who had caught their child in a lie. The imperious look made the dead man want to slap it right off the prince's face but he kept his hands where they were.

"Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes even know. The japes were one thing, but the eyes." He pointed to his own as if that explained it all. "The eyes always tell."

He lazily shrugged again. "Or maybe I'm wrong and this ale has me seeing things. Wouldn't be the first time." He laughed to himself again before becoming strangely quiet for a few moments. When he spoke again his voice had none of its drunken cheer and was deadly serious.

"But I ask you nevertheless, Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Why so serious?"

 _What._

"Why so serious?" He asked again, sounding more theatrical this time. "If I made some great offense just tell me what it was and I'll try to make amendments? I know I can be rather forward at times and if I was than— "

"Why did you say that?" He blurted out the question. "Why those words?"

Joffrey looked at him perplexed. "Are you talking about that jape I made with Robb about—"

"No, not that. What you said right now. 'Why so serious?' Why did you say it like that?" He demanded, his heart was pulsing hard once more as he did.

The boy truly looked at him then, as if he was seeing him for the first time. "I…It's-"

 _Oh. Oh, I see it now._

Before the stranger could say another word the dead man moved in close and whispered into his ear.

"Say you need to go to the privy. I'll offer to take you there. We can't talk about this here."

The stranger wearing Joffrey's face just kept looking at him for a moment, his mouth agape and frozen, before realization seemed to finally dawn on him and he regained his wits and did what as he was told.

He rose from his seat clumsily and the dead man couldn't tell if it was because of his drinking or from what he had just heard.

"My lords and ladies, I am in desperate need of a privy to release a great torrent. Can anyone help me find the way," he announced, putting on his old plastered grin.

The dead man took his cue. "I can, my prince. The privy is not far. Here. Take my arm," he said, all courtesy and with a smile as false as the prince's.

The act got a mix of reactions from the high table.

Catelyn was taken back at first but quickly gave him an approving smile. Robb cursed under his breath and had the look of someone who had just lost a bet. Eddard still had the same weary face he had worn since the feast began and it only deepened. Arya just seemed confused at the sight of the two smiling together, hand in hand.

It was Cersei though that most demanded his attention. Looking down at him with her sharp green eyes, she had the leer of a lion who wasn't quite sure she if wanted to pounce quite yet.

"That is not necessary, sweet girl," she said, her voice light and full of sweetness. "Such a task is quite beneath you. One of our guards could just as easily escort my son."

The dead man hoped the other pretender would say something to that but instead, his eyes became sheepish and fixed towards the floor.

 _He's afraid of her,_ he realized, shocked.

An awkward silence descended upon the feasting table that was only broken when Robert decided to rise drunkenly from his seat and speak aloud. "Oh let them go, Cersei. The boy is smart enough not to do anything foolish while he's alone with Ned's girl. Right, lad?" The king gave his son a wink before waving for them off with one hand while he used the other to take another swig of his massive drinking horn.

Cersei could do nothing but sit back in her chair and make a thin line with her mouth while the two of them made their way outside of the Great Hall.

The northern air was as cold as ever but it bothered the dead man little. His body was sweltering despite it all.

Once they were far enough that the sounds of the Great Hall had become faint, the dead man untied his arm from the pretender and grasped his hand tightly. To his credit, he raised no complaints and allowed himself to be lead towards the nearby sept.

As the dead man expected there was not a soul there, Septon Chayle and Septa Mordane having gone to the welcoming feast with almost everyone else in the castle. Still, he shut the door behind them and searched the small sept for any late-time parishioners that could overhear them.

When he determined that they were none there he finally allowed himself to speak.

"I know who you are." He wanted to say the words in a whisper, but his voice betrayed him and they came out in a fevered rush.

The pretender said nothing at first. His whole body had become taut since they had entered the sept. All except for his eyes. They were locked on to him as they had been in the Great Hall. Searching, wondering and judging.

For a moment the dead man thought he'd admit the truth, but instead, he simply shook his golden head and laughed. "My lady, I fear that cup of wine you had has addled you somewhat. I truly have no idea whom you think I am but I assure you that I am not it."

He extended out his hand for him to take and flashed him another false smile.

"Just take my hand Sansa so we can forget all this nonsense and return to our families." He tried to say the words nonchalantly as if he was speaking to a confused child, but the dead man could hear the pleading in his voice.

Doubts crept into his mind as he looked at that hand.

 _It could have been a coincidence._

 _You've been hearing voices._

 _You're desperate for someone to talk too._

 _You're looking for an excuse not to have Tommen and Myrcella killed._

 _There is no dead man and you're just an insane little girl._

He pushed each one of them aside and gave the pretender a defiant glare that was as hard as ice.

"You're are a liar. You've been lying since you got here. I knew something was wrong with you. I thought it was somehow my fault. That it was because of butterflies." He started laughing then, not caring if the pretender thought him mad. "Butterflies! God, I was stupid. I should have just accepted the obvious. You're not Joffrey. You're like me. A pretender. A thief. A dead man. It's the only way to explain why you haven't been following the script. Why you've been acting so damn civil. The real Joffrey was an idiot and a monster, but you…You're at least not one of those things."

When he finally stopped to take a breath he realized that he had started crying at some point.

They were tears of joy.

The pretender slowly started to edge towards the sept's doors, horror, and confusion all over his face. "You're nuts lady. I mean, mad. You're mad."

The dead man gives him one last chortle then. It was the laugh of a madman. "I'm no lady."

When suddenly he ran up towards the pretender to stop him from fleeing the sept, he wasn't sure if he would hug him, kiss him or cry into his shoulder once he caught him.

He did neither of the three in the end and instead tightly grabbed a hold of the pretender's red and gold doublet and pinned his back against the sept's door.

The dead man leaned Sansa's body into the struggling prince's to stop from moving. If the boy had been sober he likely would have been able to throw him aside but drunk as he was he could barely manage to keep standing.

"Admit it," the words were as much a threat as a command. "You're not from Westeros, you're from Earth or someplace similar. That's why you said that line and said it in the way that you did."

The dead man's blue eyes bored into the pretender's green ones, and at that moment he never felt more like a Stark. He could see the flicks of gold within them and all the little expressions they made as the prince kept trying to squirm out of his grasp.

When the pretender finally realized that there was no escaping he finally crumbled under the weight of those hard eyes.

"I thought… I thought I was only one," he said the words in a little voice that sounded old and young at the same time. The sound suddenly filled the dead man with shame.

 _He's been all alone as much as I have._

He released his grip on the pretender and backed away from him, mouthing an apology as he did. The pretender didn't seem to hear it. He simply sunk to the sept's floor in a daze saying the same few words over and over again.

"I thought I was the only one..."

Not another word was said between the two for well over a minute before the pretender finally broke his trance and looked at him with understanding.

"My name… My real name is Jeff if you can believe it. What are the chances, huh?"

That broke something in him because he just started laughing without really knowing why. After a moment the pretender joined him. When they finally settled down Jeff asked him the obvious question.

"What about you," he asked. "What was your name before all of this?"

The dead man stared at him. He had almost forgotten it over the years, having resigned himself to never being able to say it to another soul. What would be the point after all? That man was dead.

"Ryan. My name is Ryan."

* * *

 _Author's Notes - Well this chapter became a whole lot longer than I originally expected to be. I was going to leave the the sept confrontation and name reveals for later but I figured that there was no reason not to do it this chapter once Not!Sansa figured things out. Also, for those curious or unaware. Yeah, Not!Joffrey's did quote The Dark Knight. He's kind of a ham like that._

 _Advice, criticism and reviews are always welcome. Peace._


	7. Joffrey I

**JOFFREY I**

The boy made the first move, starting their dance with a rush. As quick as Robb was, Joffrey able to raise his tourney sword just in time to catch the blow and parry it away with a flick of his wrist. He would have made good on the opening there if not for Robb swinging his wooden shield around from the left and driving it deep into his chest. Even wearing a padded surcoat Joffrey could feel the slam make a spiderweb of pain across his chest that left him breathless and wheeling.

He swung his sword wildly and regretted it the moment he realized he had, the words of Ser Aron Santagar condemning him for the mistake. Robb lazily moved out of the way of the swing and brought his own sword back into position. Disoriented, and still trying to catch his breath, Joffrey didn't even see the strike that sent him crashing into the dirt.

The world was spinning but the prince could still hear Ser Rodrik's gruff voice call the round and name Robb the victor, earning the boy a round of cheers from his brother Bran and all the Stark men who had assembled around the training yard to watch the match.

To his credit, Robb didn't bask in the applause for long and quickly bent down to give out his hand for Joffrey to take. After blinking away Robb's doubles Joffrey gladly took it and rose slowly back to his feet.

When he was back to his full height he was greeted by Robb Stark's smirking face. "How long do you think it took me to put you back into the ground, Baratheon? Ten? Nine seconds?"

If Joffrey had to hazard a guess he would have put the number even lower that, but he kept that to himself. Experience had taught him that honest humility wasn't something expected of princes and that bragging was the language of lordling boys.

"Be it nine or ten I still thrashed you in no more than seven in our last bout," he managed to get out, forcing himself to smile through the throbbing in his chest.

Just as he expected Robb made a big show of looking unimpressed. "Is everyone from King's Landing so proud, or is this just what happens when you're born half a Lannister?" He asked in jest.

"Better proud than shameless," he replied, pointing a finger to a clod of dirt that had found its way into Robb's hair. "Do clean yourself up, Stark."

The dozen or so redcloaks behind him in the yard broke into laughter then but Joffrey paid them no mind. The sycophants never failed to start cracking up whenever he so much as made a pithy comment about the weather and he had long found them tedious for it. It almost made him appreciate Clegane's constant grimaces and ugly sneers. Almost.

The heir to Winterfell began to turn a shade of beet red as the redcloaks continued to laugh at him. Joffrey could hear him curse under his breath as he hastily tried to clean his hair and reclaim his pride. The act only made the redcloaks laugh harder.

The men in Robb's corner were not amused. Ser Rodrik's craggy face had somehow managed to become even more stonelike while Theon Greyjoy looked like he was about to say something in his friend's defense.

 _Now, look what you've done._ The prince turned and silenced the guards with a look he had seen his mother make a hundred times. It would not do for all his carousing to go to waste because some fools thought he needed more of their brownnosing.

"I apologize for the men," Joffrey said earnestly. "They're too loyal for their good and sometimes it turns them into fools, I fear."

Robb shrugged it off, doing his best pretend that the jeers had affected him little. "It was nothing. It's not like we didn't have a good laugh when your princely ass hit the ground."

Joffrey made another one of his easy smiles. It came naturally to him after so many years. "Don't I know it? I think I can still hear Greyjoy's voice ringing in my ears," he said aloud, making sure everyone in the yard heard him say the words.

The men in Robb's corner started to laugh just as he had hoped and the tension evaporated just as quickly as it had come.

 _Keep them laughing and smiling,_ Joffrey thought to himself. _Just keep them charmed and things will work out just fine for you._

With trouble averted Ser Rodrik finally called some servant boys to remove their armor and Joffrey was more than glad of it. He and Robb had been dueling on and off for nearly an hour, and both had given the other a defeat or victory, though Robb was usually the one to get the latter and Joffrey the former. Joffrey didn't much care either way and was just happy the contest was finally over with and he could go back to his two favorite hobbies: Talking and relaxing.

With the servants done with their armor, the two heirs left the training yard. Instead of returning to his redcloak guards Joffrey joined the crowd of northern speculators with Robb, and together they watched as their younger brothers took to the yard themselves. Between cheering them on Joffrey made sure to tell stories of the south with the future lords of Winterfell and Pyke. He told them about the sights he'd seen in King's Landing, Highgarden, and Casterly Rock and in turn they told him about ancient sentinels in the wolfswood and the cliffs along the Sunset Sea.

Over the years he had developed a strategy when it came to socializing with the heirs of important Houses that more or less boiled down to three crucial steps. Get them laughing. Get them talking. Get them drunk. The logic of it was beautifully simple in his mind. If the future great lords of Westeros loved and trusted him they'd be less inclined to want to kill him. It wasn't exactly a fool-proof strategy but it worked for his father and Joffrey found the work an enjoyable distraction if nothing else.

So far Robb seemed too susceptible to steps one and two. The prince had spent most of his time in Winterfell trading japes with its future lord to get his guard down and throwing out a couple tall-tales about southern girls to get him to speak to without formality. In all that talk Joffrey pegged the boy as a decent sort, a bit over-eager to show his mettle but not an arrogant peacock either.

He couldn't say the same for Greyjoy, though. If he was being honest he disliked the squid more so for calling him out on his exaggerations than anything else. Prince or not, Greyjoy was older than him, at least physically, and wasn't so easily charmed by his southern "worldliness" as Robb was. Still, he had to try to win him over.

 _He's going to be my future Lord of the Iron Islands. If I can make him my man I might save myself the trouble of a rebellion or two in the future._

"Believe me or not, Greyjoy, but the royal fleet does have more than three dozen dromonds, each a three-decker." It was a lie. Father would never spend that much coin on ships when he could spend it on tourneys, feasts, and whores, but Joffrey figured it was just the lie he needed to entice the squid.

Theon rolled his eyes. "I'll believe it when I see it, stag."

Joffrey saw the opening there and leaped on it. "Perhaps you will," he declared. "When I am king I'll have need of a new master of ships. My uncle is a fine mariner but I fear he'll be toothless as well as hairless by the time I'm Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Who better to replace him than the Lord of the Iron Isles?"

Greyjoy said nothing to that for a few moments and Joffrey began to fear he'd be called out as a liar once again when Robb spoke up for him. "Think of it, Theon. You'll be the first Ironborn to sit the small council. You'll be a legend."

That got the squid's attention. Joffrey could almost see the thirst for glory in Theon's dark eyes as he mulled it over. It reminded him of Loras. _This one wants to prove something to the world._

"That does sound fine indeed," Greyjoy admitted. Before saying another word Theon looked the prince over as if inspecting him. "Learn how to spot an obvious feint, Joff. I can't be your master of ships if you're dead, now can I?"

Joffrey let the slight wash over him. He knew the Hound or Mother would have been furious if they had heard it but what did he care? Greyjoy was right after all, and more besides, he hated fighting altogether. _Loras and Theon can have all the glory they want when I'm running this madhouse. I'll even let them have all the cripplings, dismemberments, and nightmares too if they want,_ he thought darkly.

He said none of that to Greyjoy, of course. Instead, he did what almost always did when someone insulted him. He smiled.

"I'm happy you think so, Theon. Once you're wardship is done perhaps you can come to King's Landing and I can show you those dromonds myself."

Joffrey saw a strange shadow cross Greyjoy's face then that he did not understand. Robb must have seen it too because he changed the subject before anything more could be said. "I suppose I still owe you that gold dragon, Joff?"

 _Oh right, that._ He had nearly forgotten the bet he made with Stark at the welcoming feast, black beer and strange revelations having washed it from his mind.

The bet had been a trifle, a drunken wager that he had managed to convince the young heir to Winterfell to partake in only because the boy thought it impossible for him to win. The challenge was simple, so simple in fact that at time Joffrey thought it would require only a little bit of charm on his part to win: Get Sansa Stark to smile.

 _How the Hell did that of all things become so complicated,_ he couldn't help but wonder. A small part of him still hoped that the whole night had just been some drunken dream that he could forget over time, but another couldn't help but be feel relieved it had happened.

Joffrey shrugged and waved Robb off. "Keep your coin, Robb. I'm half a Lannister remember? We have an entire mountain of the stuff and hardly need more."

That's when the squid decided to strike. Theon's tone was playful but the prince could hear the edge in it and knew something ugly lay behind his smirk. _He smiles more than I do,_ Joffrey wagered. _They're probably all just as phony as mine._

"Perhaps you have no need for coin because you prefer juicy prizes?" He asked innocently. "Robb told me of your conquests in Highgarden. Did you make another right here in Winterfell, stag? You and the hellcat were alone for quite a while when all you needed to do was take a piss."

Joffrey gritted his teeth. He wanted to curse but knew that would only play into the squid's hands. _I ticked him off and now he wants to rake me over the coals for it. Great._

Robb was quiet at first but Joffrey saw how the boy's grip over the wooden fence of the training yard had tightened. Then his eyes became narrowed and found his. They were same icy Stark eyes he had seen in the sept that night and they gave him the same chill now as they did then. It made him wonder if his uncle was right and that all these Starks do have nothing but ice running through their veins.

"You didn't do anything did you, Baratheon?" Robb finally asked him coldly. "My sister has been acting stranger than usual since the feast. Tell me you didn't do anything to her."

 _So much for keeping them charmed._ He raised his hands in protest. "Greyjoy thinks too much of me, Robb. Nothing happened, I assure you. Your sister simply guided my drunken self to a privy. That's all."

"Methinks the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, Robb," Theon proclaimed, holding his chin as if he had just said something profound. "He is the king's son. It only makes sense he'd have his father's appetites, no?"

"Shut up, Theon. That's our king you speak of. Besides, you're hardly better," Robb pointed out.

Theon just shrugged at the accusation. "At least I admit it, unlike our prince over here."

"All the same. Shut up," Stark warned, his patience wearing thin. Theon obligated him but not without rolling his eyes.

Robb turned his attention back to the prince. Some of the ice is his voice had thawed but Joffrey still heard lingering suspicion in its tones. "If what you say is true then why did it take you two so long to return to the feast? The privy wasn't that far and I doubt you drank so much that you had to spend all that time draining yourself."

Joffrey had to fight the urge to look away from him. He liked to think of himself as a good liar, and a better actor, but direct confrontation was never his strong suit, especially when it came to these Starks it seemed.

The Hound was just across the training yard and Joffrey knew he could simply call him over and have him settle this awkward mess. It was a tempting idea, but he resisted it. He knew once that beast got involved things could only get worse. Lying was all that was left to him.

"You're right," He replied. "Unfortunately, it wasn't just my member that needed draining. Black beer is a joy going in but tortuous coming out the same channel. Your sister can attest to that, I'm afraid. She helped me get back on my feet every time I was forced to relieve myself as we walked back to the hall. Several times, in fact."

Joffrey heard Greyjoy snicker but he ignored it. He knew the best lies didn't always leave you in the best light.

Robb eyed him closely, searching for the lie. When the boy finally shook his head and slumped his shoulders Joffrey knew he had not found it.

"I'm being a mother hen," Robb muttered, sounding as if he was talking more to himself than to him.

Joffrey clasped him on the shoulder as if nothing had happened. "You're going to be my Warden of the North one day aren't you? I think being a mother hen is a good quality of a Warden, no?"

"I suppose you're right," Robb admitted warily.

The boy looked uneasy and did not say another word to him for some time. When he finally did his voice was a whisper, and the prince strained to hear it through the nearby clashing of wooden swords.

"I shouldn't have made that bet with you," Robb told him. "My sister would kill me if she found out about it, but more than that she's… she's not well, Joff. I don't think she ever has been but she's gotten worse. Father says she has too much wolfsblood and that's what makes her wild but I'm not so sure. Arya's wild too but she doesn't steal my clothes or spend days talking to no one or talk to the air like a…" Something caught Robb's eyes and he stopped to look past the prince. Joffrey turned to see what it was and nearly laughed out loud.

 _Speak of the Devil and they will come._

He hadn't spoken more than few words to Sansa Stark since that night in the sept, and all them had been quick courtesies and nothing more. For the most part, the prince was glad of it. It gave him time to think, he told himself, though he had to wonder whether he just didn't want to deal with the situation before him.

She came to them with her direwolf at her side. Robb had shown him his own direwolf, Grey Wind, and assured him up and down that the beasts were smarter than common dogs or wolves, and listened to commands better than some knights. Joffrey wasn't entirely convinced, though, and felt uneasy around the creatures all the same.

Theon cursed under his breath when he noticed Sansa's approach and suddenly gained a keen interest in Tommen and Bran's duel. Robb sighed and rubbed his neck before greeting his sister with a question.

"Shouldn't you be with Septa Mordane?" He asked, before pointing a finger at the prince. "And with his sister?"

Sansa didn't pay the question much mind. "Mordane asked me to leave," she said, simply, as if the answer was obvious.

Robb crossed arms at that, not giving an inch. "Oh? And why would that be?" He sounded almost bored as if this was some kind of routine game between them.

Sansa mirrored his boredom and shrugged lazily as she gave Robb her answer. "She said that I was distracting and that as long as I was I had no place in her sewing circle."

It only took Robb looking at the direwolf at her side to puzzle what had happened there. "You bought your wolf didn't you?" It was not a question.

Sansa's lips made a ghost of a smile. "I brought her along, yes."

The boy tried hard to capture the look of a disappointed parent, shaking his head and making a thin line with his mouth, but try as he might he could not suppress the slight grin that grew on his face. "Mother will be angry with you. Again," Robb declared.

Sansa's mouth twitched downwards, but it shifted into back into a smile, that to Joffrey's eyes had all the warmth of an icicle. _She's going to have to work on that,_ he mused. _Even Mother can make better smiles than that._

"I doubt she'll be angry for long," she said mischievously before quickly moving besides the prince and taking his arm. "Not when she hears that I've been escorting our fair prince across the castle."

 _So it's time then, eh._

Robb didn't seem to like that answer and eyed the pair sharply. Joffrey saw the specter of suspicion rise in his eyes again. If Sansa noticed as well she showed no sign of it, and simply laced his fingers with his as if he had already agreed to come along.

"I've already shown him most of the castle, Sansa," he told her coolly. "The godswood, the armory, the glass gardens, the-"

"And the library tower?" She asked, cutting him. "Did you show him our copy of 'History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall'?" She turned away from Robb and gave Joffrey a coy look. "Oh, it's quite a fine read, my prince, you'll love it."

Robb, in fact, had not. They had skipped the tower in their tour of the castle and Joffrey couldn't say he was overly bothered by the omission. Everything in this world seemed to be written by a maester and Joffrey tended to find their prose difficult to page through, even when he was interested in the subject. That was especially true when it came to Westerosi history, which in Joffrey's experience always ended up at some point going into vivid detail about how some disagreement or war was solved through a child bride being sold off to some greybeard.

"What is this, Sansa? Another one of your games? It was fun when were children but…" The boy paused for a moment and searched for the right words to say. When he spoke again his voice was calm but affected, as if he was trying to imitate someone else's. "We're getting older, Sansa. We all must give a care to our responsibilities and duties now. Even you."

Joffrey felt Sansa's grip on his hand grow tighter. "I know," She said sadly. "That's why I'm taking him. I've barely spoken a word to our dear prince since the feast and I wish to amend that. I know it will make our mother proud. That's all, Robb."

The prince decided it was more than time for him to make another lie if only to cut the tension hanging in the air. "I think some light easy reading would do me some good after getting thrashed by your brother, my lady."

Sansa didn't seem to hear him though, nor Robb for that matter who continued to stare down his sister before finally sighing in resignation. "Fine then, go. It's not like I can stop you." His wary eye moved to Joffrey before he turned his back to both of them. "Don't be over long this time. Winterfell might not be as large your Red Keep but that only means news spreads fast here."

The implication was clear and Joffrey had to suppress the urge to make a face. It was the third time this day he was forced to smooth things over with the young heir to Winterfell because of someone else's actions and he was beginning to get annoyed at the trend.

Despite that, he kept his calm and soldiered on as always. Before departing the yard he made sure tell Tommen he was leaving and that he would do well to not wait up for him once he was done with his own morning practice. He also made sure to tell the boy of just how proud of him he was, and that father would be too if he had seen how much his swordplay had improved. That got him a beaming smile from Tommen, but a loud snort from the nearby Hound who wasn't as forgiving.

If it had been some other guard or redcloak Joffrey would have said something, but the Hound was a different animal altogether, one that Joffrey rarely had the stomach to contend with. Instead, he simply told the creature to be mindful of Tommen while he was gone and not to follow him as he left with Sansa. With that business done he rejoined her and they left the training yard together, hand-in-hand, while her direwolf eagerly trailed behind them.

Robb had been wrong about the Red Keep. Winterfell was the larger castle by Joffrey's own measure, and even though a small army of merchants and tradesperson that had come into its walls, the prince didn't believe for a second that ill news could travel as quickly in it as it did in the Red Keep, where secrets seemed to spread and multiply faster than vermin.

Even so, Joffrey gave courteous smiles and nods to almost every servant and peddler that crossed his and Sansa's pass as they made their way across the castle. As he did, he couldn't help but think of how each and every one of them would climb over each other just to whisper into Robb's ear if they saw or heard something that proved the lordling's suspicions right. That was the way of things in the Red Keep and other southern castles and Joffrey saw little no reason to believe the North was any different in that. Still, it never hurt to smile. One never knew when one could endear you to someone useful down the line.

Sansa waved and smiled just the same to the servants she recognized, but every time she did her face would fall and go back to being anxious.

When they finally reached the library tower, Sansa quickened her pace, hurrying Joffrey along the tower's stone staircase. The moment they entered the tower she left his side and searched the tower's upper floor for any other souls within, doing so with a franticness that put him on edge. Her direwolf stayed did not join them in the tower, instead standing guard by the door without her master even commanding her to do so.

To Joffrey eyes, the library was deserted, with nothing but rows of shelved tomes to keep them company. Looking at them all, he couldn't help but wonder if his uncle was amongst them somewhere, reading some dusty tome. Perhaps he was and was the dwarf was watching the pair right this second, waiting for them to blurt out all their strange secrets. Joffrey knew the notion was absurd but a nervous part of him forced his eyes to scan the room again for any sign of the clever dwarf.

"No one's here, I think. It's still not midday yet, so Luwin's still probably talking to Ned and Catelyn about exactly how much your visit is costing us today. That should take him a while. Plus, he needs to check on his ravens too before he makes his rounds here." She said the words in his direction but it was clear she was talking more to herself than him.

"Good," he said simply, not sure on what else to say beyond that before remembering Robb. "There's still you're brother, though," he reminded her. "Apparently he's not a fan of me being alone with you." The prince's tone was light but even to his ears, it sounded anxious.

Sansa just rolled her eyes. "Never mind him. He's just doing that because he thinks it's what Ned would do. He'll growl, but nothing will come of it, I assure you."

Joffrey recalled the Stark boy's glare and wasn't so sure. "He has a direwolf," he quipped.

"And you have a Hound, seven Kingsguard, and several kingdoms to protect you. The odds are still in your favor, I think," she fired back. "Besides, if everything goes well, this time you won't have to fight him or anyone else."

 _What?_

Before Joffrey had time to give voice to his thoughts Sansa had already moved on to something else.

"How much of the plot do you remember?" She asked him.

"What?" Joffrey said, utterly lost to her meaning.

Sansa, in turn, looked at him as if he was the dumbest creature on earth. "The plot of the books," she asked him again, her voice incredulous. "The 'A Song of Ice and Fire' series. You must have at least read them, right?"

Joffrey shrugged. "I'm sorry," he apologized, still confused. She might as well have been asking him about his thoughts on the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall for all he knew of what she was talking about.

Sansa's face dropped. "You haven't even watched the terrible show?" Her faltering tone made it clear that it wasn't a question.

"I haven't even watched the terrible show," he told her simply.

Sansa said nothing to that. Instead, she started to pace around the library floor as if he wasn't even here. One of her hands covered her face while the other had become a fist at her side. She looked like frustration personified and Joffrey could faintly hear her murmur something to herself as she paced about, completing the overall image.

It was strange watching her move like that. Her gestures and movements just didn't seem to fit her frame to Joffrey's eyes. Thinking on it now, he realized the same rang true for her words as well. Since they had made it to the library tower her voice had become lower and her whole body language had seemed to change from how it was at the training yard, becoming looser, less guarded, and just more… mannish.

 _Of course, it does. That's because it doesn't fit at all,_ Joffrey finally forced him to admit. _He. Ryan, not Sansa. He's a man, just like me._

The pretender knew and understood that intellectually, but it was still hard to accept it with him looking every inch a young girl. Despite himself, the thought of it made his skin crawl.

 _So much for being more enlightened than the medieval barbarians._

"I don't get you're talking about," he said suddenly, perhaps more bluntly than he wanted to. "I've never read any of these books you're going on about or watched this show. It is some kind of fantasy thing? I don't remember much from… before, but I do know that fantasy wasn't my genre."

He was getting annoyed. People talking in circles was something that had grown to accept living in the Red Keep, but even he had his limits. "I'm sorry, I really am, but I just don't understand why knowing about some books would be important here."

Joffrey steadied his breath before continuing. He always did whenever he thought of the day he died. "All I know is that I was walking down a street when I just suddenly woke up here and…"

Ryan stopped pacing then and finally looked towards him again. "Realized you were in another world and in another body?" He finished. Just like before, it wasn't a question.

"Yes! Exactly that," he said, getting giddy despite himself. It was still hard to accept that all this was happening. That he found someone else not from this world.

 _He made me say my name again,_ Jeff remembered. _My real name._

He couldn't even remember the last he had even thought of it, let alone say it aloud. The fact it had all come about because he drunkenly quoted a movie he could scarcely even recall only added to the absurdity the situation. He wanted to laugh but he feared Ryan would take offense. Sober or not he would prefer not to risk being pressed up against a wall again.

"This can still work," Ryan said to himself before taking in a long breath. "The plan can still work."

Jeff couldn't help but groan. They were back to this, despite having just reached some common ground. Name or not, it was frustrating, and he was more than done with feeling blind. "What plan?" He demanded finally, throwing his hands up. "You keep mentioning things without even bothering to explain what they actually mean. It's like you expect me to already know what you're talking about."

Ryan took the words in but still eyed him hesitantly. For a second Jeff thought the other pretender would go back to pacing, which he was more than ready to call out, when instead Ryan reached into the folds of his dress to retrieve a tucked away letter from it. He held it in his hands as if it was priceless gold or a bomb that could explode if handled carelessly.

"I'm sorry, you're right. I've been in my own head for so long I think I've forgotten how to talk to people."

She moved close to him, closing the distance between them, and put the letter in his hands. "I stole that from the ravenery this morning before our maester could get to it," he started, his face deadly serious. "You need to read it. There's so much happening that you don't even know about. So much we're going to have to deal with. I'll try my best to explain it all, I swear it, but the important thing right now is that there are people conspiring against our families."

Even knowing that the answer was probably literally in his hands, several names immediately flocked to Jeff's mind all at once.

The Tyrells? Mother rarely missed a chance call them grasping upstarts, though she said the same for almost every House with a modicum of power. Dorne then? Their Prince had lost family when King's Landing fell to his grandfather. And there was the Ironborn. If Theon could still hold a grudge over that failed rebellion what of his father?

Cutting to the chase, Jeff read the letter while Ryan stood over him anxiously.

When he was finished he said the first thing that came to mind. "What the ever-loving fuck?! How could she think-"

"I know," Ryan said sympathetically, putting a calming hand on his arm. "And that's just a small part of it. This whole thing is a convoluted mess of conspiracies and I barely remember how most of it is supposed to go, but if we work together I think we could make it right. Or at the very least make it less awful."

Ryan suddenly took away his hand from Jeff's arm, as if surprised he had even put it there in the first place. He instead gave out his palm for a handshake. "What do you say? Think you can work with me here?" He had a brittle smile on his stolen face that spoke volumes. It was hardly encouraging.

What else he could do? He was in the dark and needed answers for all this madness, even if the oracle before him still seemed half-mad.

Jeff took Ryan's hand. "I think this will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he lied.

* * *

 _Author's Notes - Oh boy has it been a while. Yeah, this was a monster of a chapter, being my longest yet. Sorry about that. School, the holidays, bouts of writer's block, and several revisions made this one a challenge to get done. I definitely plan for the next to be shorter and arrive at much more soonish time. Can't make any promises though._

 _Anyways, besides that, I hope y'all enjoy the chapter and where I'm taking the story. Jeff being in the dark about the books was a choice I made largely because I thought it would be interesting if one of the SI's wasn't a book reader whatsoever, which means Ryan gets to explain certain things about his "family" that he might not want to know about. Fun!_

 _Advice, criticism, and reviews are always welcome. I would especially like to hear people's opinions on how I wrote Robb here. We never get the character's POV in canon and want to make sure that I did the Young Wolf justice._

 _Peace._


	8. Arya II

**ARYA II**

Bran was sulking. He had been since they arrived in the godswood, and Arya had quickly grown tired of it.

The boy sat at the foot of the godswood's lone heart tree and was wearing a pout that seemed to match the unsmiling face behind him while his sisters played one game after another around him. His still nameless direwolf sat quietly by his side, mirroring his master, even as its own siblings happily chased one other through the woods.

The godswood was beautiful today, Arya thought, as she finally collapsed from an exhausting round of monsters and maidens. Sansa quickly followed suit, falling beside her just as breathless as she was.

Her body rooted to the ground, Arya took the time to admire the greenness all around her. Despite the days growing colder and shorter, the godswood stayed defiantly in the throngs of spring. The leaves of the surrounding ironwoods and sentinels had yet to give up their luster, still remaining a rich dark green, while a warm, earthy smell was alive in the morning air. Looking at it all, she couldn't help but wonder whether the godswood would stay this way when she returned from the south. That was if she ever did.

Mother and Septa Mordane had told them all of their leaving only a few days ago but it still felt unreal even now. The thought suddenly made Arya's eyes go misty. She rubbed the brewing tears away with the back of her sleeve before Sansa or Bran could notice and buried the sniffle that had come over her.

 _Big brothers don't cry, so why should big sisters?_ She reminded herself.

Arya looked towards her brother through watery eyes, watching him as he _still_ sat by the heart tree with his head in his hands doing nothing.

He was being stupid, Arya judged bitterly. Stupid and selfish. He was going south same as they were, making this one of the last times they'd be able to play in the godswood together, even if was just the three of them. Arya had hoped that her brother would realize that after getting bored of moping and join them in their games, but to her dismay, he kept on complaining and looking forlorn at the broken tower nearby.

She knew that Jon could do that too sometimes, and Sansa as well, but at least they had better reasons than not being able to climb some stupid wall or tower. That's what Arya assumed anyway. It wasn't as if either ever truly told her much about the causes of their melancholy.

 _Jon should be here,_ she brooded, and not for the first time. _Robb and Rickon, too._

But Robb was off hunting with Father and the stags, while Rickon was with Mother in the Great Keep. Jon, though, had refused them, wishing to be left alone to his brooding no matter how hard they begged him to reconsider. Sansa had accepted the final refusal stoically as if already suspecting their brother's answer, but for Arya, the rejection had stung sharply.

Arya was suddenly angry then, furiously so. She was angry at Bran for being stupid, angry at Father for taking them south, angry at the fat, stupid king for forcing him too, and angry at Jon for not coming along with them.

Springing to her feet quickly, Arya searched the ground around her and found a nearby stone that stood out in the godwood's undergrowth. In the corner of her eye, Arya saw her sister half-risen up with a curious expression on her face. Before she could say a single word in recrimination, Arya had already plunked the stone from the ground and launched it in Bran's direction.

There was more anger than planning in the throw, but even still, Arya had the presence of mind to angle it so that the stone wouldn't hit her brother but instead land with a thud at his feet. Bran's reaction was just as instantaneous she had hoped, with the boy immediately raising his head in surprise to the sudden sound. His direwolf did much the same, the beast's ears standing tall at attention.

"Oh, stop it," She finally snapped at him, her voice more scathing than she had intended. "Why are you sulking so much? It's not like we stopped you from doing something important or anything."

Bran squished up his face. "I only wanted to climb," he mumbled under his breath. "I still don't see why I can't. I already said that I didn't want to play any of your stupid games. I don't see why you girls can't just leave me alone?"

Arya clapped her lips together, forming a hard line. Of course, he'd just go on whining some more, she thought darkly. Why did she ever think otherwise?

In the back of mind, Arya tried to remember that Bran was still her baby brother, that he was no better than Rickon really, even if she was only a year older than him. She knew that meant that sometimes baby brothers could be stupid and trying, but even knowing that it was hard to not to be frustrated with him now.

Arya's retort was on the tip of her tongue, ready to be unfurled when she finally noticed that Sansa had fully risen from her spot and had quietly moved to her side. Her older sister quickly put a hand to her shoulder, stopping her before she could say something she'd come to regret later.

"Because Mother doesn't want you too," Sansa answered Bran matter-of-factly. She left her sister's side and casually walked up to their brother at the heart tree, giving Arya a quick sideways glance as she did that made the younger Stark girl turn an embarrassing shade of red.

When she got to Bran, she bent down slightly so that her eyes were level to his. "There are better things to do than climb around like a squirrel all day, you know. Like spending time with your sisters right here and now."

Bran looked just unconvinced as he had when they first arrived and Arya quickly spied the brewing rebuttal on her brother's face. "But Father—"

"But nothing," Sansa declared firmly, cutting him off with those two words and a quick wave of her hand. Looking at her then, with her auburn hair long and shining again, Arya couldn't help but be reminded of their mother. Not sure whether her sister would think that a compliment or a rebuke, Arya kept the thought to herself.

Despite his sister's words, Bran just squished up his face again and mumbled something under his breath that Arya couldn't quite make out. Given how her sister pinched her nose and sighed, though, it seemed more likely than not that Bran had just said more of the same.

Sansa shook her head miserably. "I should have done this before," she lamented with bitterness so affected that might as well have been a line from a mummer's play to Arya's ears. "I thought you'd come around eventually, but it seems I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands, dear brother."

Bran tilted his head to one side, obviously confused to her meaning. _That's right,_ Arya realized, giggling softly to herself even as she covered her mouth as to not give the game away. _She's never done it to Bran before._

Before Bran could even ask what she meant, Sansa had already lightly pushed him off his stump, sending him tumbling to the soft, mossy dirt of the godwood floor.

In a flash, Bran's direwolf was standing at attention, its yellow eyes fixed firmly on Sansa. For half a second Arya feared that the beast would bare its teeth and snarl or even a make a lunge in Bran's defense, but in the end, it did neither.

The grey wolf continued to gaze at the elder Stark for a few more passing seconds before finally looking towards its fallen master who was just in the process of getting back up. When it saw that Bran was fine it just went right back to resting as if nothing had happened at all.

"You pushed me!" Bran accused Sansa incredulously, still shocked that she had done it.

Sansa put a hand to her chin and made a parody of being aghast at herself. "By the Gods, I think you're right," she said, before adding in a lower tone, "I could have been worst, though, trust me."

Not sure of what to make of that Bran went back to arguing. "It wasn't fair," he shot back, wiping away the dirt on one his pant legs as he did. "You didn't warn me or anything."

"Well, now you know," she answered flippantly, shrugging. "Now. What are you going to do about it?" She asked, a knowing grin on her lips.

Bran must have finally gotten the hint because his grimace slowly began to turn upward, his eyes lighting up in turn. "Get you back for it."

Sansa made a show of looking unimpressed, rolling her eyes and snorting. "Words are wind, little brother. If you can catch me, catch me. Don't just sit around talking about it."

That finally did it. Bran saw the challenge there and took to it without another word. In a flash, he swiftly reached out with his right hand to catch his sister only to find himself grabbing at the air as Sansa deftly avoid him by inches. Turning on her heel to make her escape, she blasted off into the thickness of the godswood, filling the woods with her uproarious laughter as she did.

Undaunted, Bran made a dash for her, swearing up and down and again and again that he would catch her in due time as he moved in pursuit. Not wanting to be left out, Arya made a proclamation of her own. "I'm playing too!" She shrieked, before breaking into a run herself as she tried to keep pace with her siblings.

They didn't plan on it, but by the time they ringed the godswood twice over, Arya found herself helping Bran in his hunt rather than competing with him. Sansa didn't seem to mind, though, and encouraged them between bouts of laughing as they tried and failed to get her.

Eventually, though, teamwork won the day when the pair, at last, managed to chase their sister to a corner of the godwood that's ironwoods were so packed together that it was impossible to go down the path before them any further. Without a word spoken between them, Bran took the right, whilst Arya took the left of that narrowing corridor. Together they flanked their sister and jointly tagged her before Sansa could even try to double back and escape them.

Their game at an end, all three collapsed to the godwood floor, too exhausted to move, but with smiles on their faces, nevertheless. None of them said a thing for a while, their lungs too tired to do anything more than make low, hungry gasps for air.

Arya looked up into the sky. Morning was giving way to noon and she could feel the sun's rays warm her face. She saw the green canopy of ironwood leaves around her, too. Looking at it all she realized that she never wanted to leave that spot or that moment. Again the ghost of tears started to well up in her eyes. This time she let them fall shamelessly.

Bran heard the sniffing first. He raised his head to search for their source, quickly finding his sister's stained face.

"Arya?" He called to her, his face puzzled. "What's wrong? I thought we were having fun? Are you still mad about before?"

"That's not why, Bran," Sansa answered thoughtfully.

Arya saw the pitying look on her sister's face and suddenly wanted to do nothing more than run away from her and Bran. "It's nothing," she lied, trying to clean her face as she did. "Nothing's wrong with me."

Sansa wasn't convinced, and neither was even Bran for that matter. The two kept staring at her and at that moment Arya had to fight the urge not to roll over and die right then and there.

"It's all right to be sad about leaving home, Arya," her sister said kindly, her voice filled with warm empathy. Her sister was rarely mingy, at least to her anyway, but it was queer to hear her sound like that. It reminded her Mother again.

"You're not the only one, you know," Sansa went on, throwing a finger Bran's way. "Bran cried too when he tried to say goodbye to Hodor."

The lordling looked as if Sansa had just caught him stealing tarts from the kitchens. "How did you know?" He demanded, surprised and blushing.

"It's a seeeeeecret," Sansa japed, making one of her mischievous smiles before growing serious again. "It doesn't really matter, Bran. Honest. It's natural to feel gloom when you're leaving home for the first time. That goes for all us."

"Even you?" Arya dared to ask.

The question came out doubtful. Arya bit the inside of her cheek in repentance, but she would not take it back. She couldn't. It had been gnawing at her since Mother told her that they were all to go to the south with Father and the fat king's family. That was bad enough, leaving Winterfell and the North for some stupid southron castle that she'd never seen before, but since then she had seen her sister constantly in the company the king's ever smiling, golden prince, so much so that she was surprised that her sister had even come up with this day together in the godswood.

Arya didn't know what to think of that. She still didn't in truth. Originally, she thought her sister hated the prince. She had told her that she didn't want to marry him, after all. That meant she hated him didn't? Arya wasn't so sure anymore, and that nearly scared her more than leaving Jon and the only home she has ever known. Going south might not have been so bad if her sister was with her. But if she meant to spent all her time with the prince what was left for her? Father? Bran? One had his duties, while the other seemed intent to squire for some famous knight.

Sansa watched her curiously, searching her face for something that Arya hoped she'd never find.

"What would make you ask a question like that?" She asked, more puzzled than anything else. "Of course, that includes me. Why would it not?"

Arya kept her eyes low. She searched for the right words to say that would explain how she felt but none seemed forthcoming. In the end, though, it turned out to be a wasted effort.

"Theon says you're in love with him," Bran cut in. He said the words so innocently that they came across as more a question than an accusation. "That you're lovesick, and that's why you disappear with him all the time." The boy furrowed his brow. "That's not true, is it?"

Sansa looked at the pair of them as if they had gone mad before putting a hand to her harried face.

"Bugger me," she swore aloud, half-serious with indignation. "I'm going to strangle that damn squid before we leave, mark my words."

The curse got a gasp out of a Bran, but a warm giggle out of Arya. Her sister was rarely one for tact or delicacy when it came to her words, and it felt good to hear speak so honestly again. Its presence had been too long gone in her mind.

Her tears forgotten at that moment, Arya found her courage again and asked the lingering question once and for all. "So, it's not true, then? About you and the prince?"

Sansa wrinkled up her nose as if she had just smelled something foul in the air. "Our dear ward Theon is cursed with an overindulgent imagination, sister. It makes him see things that aren't there and twist what is to suit his vulgar fantasies."

Her sister sighed deeply. "He's a being a nosy gossip," she continued philosophically, whatever anger she felt a moment ago replaced with dry exasperation. "We'll deal with more of the same once we're in the south, and I doubt they will be as harmless as Theon. Words are wind, to be sure, but they can cut deeply if told in the wrong ear."

The whole world seemed to go quiet then as if some dark truth had just been spoken. The south always seemed an altogether different world in Arya's mind. A distant realm was so separate from her home in the North that it might as well have been Essos or any of the queer kingdoms that lay beyond the Free Cities.

The thought brought a memory to the front of the Stark girl's mind. She remembered how her mother had tried to tell her through a sad, brittle smile that everything would be all right. That, though, the Red Keep and all its strange new people and sights would at first be frightening and difficult to accept that eventually, she'd come to see the capital as a second home just as she had when she came to Winterfell with Father and a baby Robb at her breast.

A small part of Arya wanted to believe that. It was a comforting thought, after all, to think that though change would come it would not be so terrible, despite all her growing fears.

Her sister seemed determined to dispel that hope, faint as it was.

"We need to stay together," Sansa said suddenly, breaking the silence. She stood back up to her feet with a frantic energy that strangely put Arya on edge. She and Bran rose up as well.

Sansa looked at them with a dire expression on her face. "When we go south it will just be us, Father, Jeyne and a few of the guard," she began, her voice taut. "We can't trust anyone else there. Not the king, not the queen, nor anyone at court, not even…," she paused, trailing off for the briefest of seconds as some invisible battle played out her mind. "The prince and his siblings," she finally finished. "No one. Do both of you understand?"

Arya blinked at the question. She did not. Not truly anyways. She was fairly sure that Bran didn't either, but nevertheless, they both bobbed their heads in false understanding.

Their sister made a sigh of relief, blind to the uncertainty in her siblings' eyes. "Father doesn't know how dangerous it is there, which is why he'll need us… I'm sure of it."

She knelt down to their height and delicately put a hand to one of their respective shoulders. Her face was now so close to theirs that Arya could see the urgent gleam in her sister's blue Tully eyes. It was a look both familiar and foreign to her, and they almost made Arya squirm.

"Promise me, right here in the godswood, that when we arrive in the Red Keep that you'll look out for anything that seems wrong or might be a danger to Father. Promise me that if you do that you'll tell me first and no one else."

Doubt began to creep into Arya's mind then. _Maybe their right,_ she worried despite herself. _Maybe Sansa was mad like the villain queens in all the tales and songs? Seeing treachery and liars everywhere._

Arya brushed the fear aside. It wasn't true. Her sister was strange and different, just as she was. There was nothing wrong or mad about that, she told herself. Nothing at all.

"I promise," Arya pledged with more certainty then she felt.

Confused and not sure what to do, Bran quickly did the same. "I promise."

With their oaths made, Sansa released their shoulders and stood up, a smile now plastered on her face.

"Good, good," she repeated, though it seemed to Arya that words were more for herself than them. "I knew both of you would understand. That you would see the need."

Sansa stared off for a moment, apparently lost to her own thoughts as her brother and sister stood there in the godswood waiting for her to say something, anything, that would explain everything she had just said and asked of them.

After what felt like an eternity their sister's focus returned and fell upon an anxious Bran.

"Oh, and Bran," she said, her voice a mix of warm concern and icy warning that rooted her brother to the ground.

"Yes?" he asked hesitantly.

"You won't climb the walls of the Red Keep either will you." It was not a question.

The young boy quickly shook his head.

And with that, Sansa smiled brightly and tagged him once again, restarting their chase as if nothing of importance had been said between now and their last one.

As Sansa ran off into the distance Bran looked to Arya with a dumbstruck expression of his face. Arya couldn't blame him for wearing it, though, as she surely had the same look on her own.

Not knowing what to say to him Arya did the only thing at that moment that seemed normal.

"Come on," she said, readying herself for the renewed chase. "We need to catch her again." And so, they went, two confused children, breaking into a sprint as they followed their sister on the twisted path before them.

* * *

 _Author's Notes - Remember in the last chapter where I said that I couldn't make any promises about the next chapter being soonish? Well, sorry about that. Again. I knew this work wasn't going to be coming out on a regular basis, but I didn't imagine that it would take me so long to get them out. Once again, I apologize for the lateness and I hope that this chapter makes up for it._

 _Advice, criticism, and reviews are always welcome._

 _Peace._


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